Gut Reaction: Phase I of 'Villains and Heroes'
by TheWriterChick89
Summary: -Show me a hero, and I'll write you a tragedy.- It takes three weeks for Gotham City (and every spec of familiarity and comfort in Caroline's life) to crash and burn.
1. Smile and nod

_(Whoops forgot the disclaimer first!)_

**A/N**:_ I do not own Batman, Bruce Wayne, Gotham, etc. This is purely a work of fiction and the work of a fan. No copyright infringement intended. The only thing I own is Caroline Hames and her storyline._

_Enjoy :)_

_***Also, quote from the summary is by F. Scott Fitzgerald._

* * *

Things were worse than ever in Gotham City. Corruption had rooted deep into everything that was supposed to keep Gotham safe, from the lawyers bribing for plea bargains to the cops turning a blind eye to muggings and hold-ups. Once Martha and Thomas Wayne were killed, so was the hope of Gotham's bright future.

But that was hard to believe on a day like this. The sun is out, and despite all of the office towers looming above, everything glows. Thirteen floors down, the streets are full; people moving around in time, like clockwork, keeping this city alive and moving with chaotic preciseness.

There are some bad parts, for sure, but for now, Gotham still ticks.

Then again, this could all be in her imagination; she's simply doing her best to stay above all the bad. She can't afford to get sucked into it.

"Hames!"

Caroline jumped from her daydreaming, elbow sliding off the desk in her haste. Across the tiny office—eight cubicles, one private room and one tiny kitchen—everyone could see the stern look on the boss's face. He crooked a finger at her and Caroline obliged, standing and crossing the room with as much grace she could scrounge up.

Unfortunately upon turning the corner of the cubicles she lost her footing and practically fell over; if she hadn't grabbed the wall she would be kissing the carpet. The owner of said cubicle, co-worker Angie, smiled sympathetically while Caroline blushed in embarrassment and righted herself.

_Thank god they don't enforce heels for the dress code_, she thought to herself. _You'd have broken your neck eighteen times by now. Sheesh. _

Caroline was her worst critic sometimes.

Brian Douglas was the head of Greystoke Consulting, a small firm that had been running for ten-some years. He was the prez, CEO, founder, so he had the honour of inhabiting the one private office (which meant he could nap at his desk with door closed. Honestly. He'd get away with it if he didn't snore). Obviously it should be considered an honour that he looked up from his files when Caroline finally stepped in.

"Got a new one for you," he said, picking up a folder. He was about to hand it to her but held back a moment until Caroline looked him in the eye. "Keep things clean for this one, alright? It's a big client, first time working with them."

Caroline raised her eyebrows a bit. 'Keeping it clean' meant during her work there could be no scrap of paper, no Post-It note and no doodle left behind, because this information was secure and should be locked down. "Are you sure you want to give it to me, then?" she offered him an out.

The chagrin was obvious. "I'm far too busy to handle it, and I'm certainly not giving it to Lauren or Angie," he said, jutting his chin in their direction.

With a quick look over her shoulder Caroline saw that one girl was painting her fingernails with White-Out and the other was chatting on the phone. Nope, they were not an option. So she pocketed the backhanded compliment—he trusted her more than the others, but the others were incompetent—and took the folder back to her desk.

After three years on the job, Caroline Hames had mastered the art of professional discretion. Yes, this was a simple job she was supposed to do for a little while after she dropped out of university—something that would help with the sudden changes in her life that needed taking care of—and she may be getting too comfortable in a job she never wanted, but she's damn good at it... even if her major was engineering with a minor in nuclear physics.

A part of her—that annoying, nagging part from earlier—enjoyed reminding her that she had only advanced so easily because she had no social life. The other girls, White-out Angie and phone-convo Lauren, would put their work aside the minute the clock struck 5:00 and would go out on dates and to parties... but not Caroline. She didn't have time for that. Life threw her a curve ball and she has to take care of it. There would be time for boys and silliness later... maybe when she retired. There's a community centre close to her apartment that offers bridge on Tuesdays. She always wanted to learn bridge.

She sat down in her desk, taking a deep breath to ready herself for another job before she flipped the file folder open and was taken by surprise instantly—this _was _a big client. The logo for Wayne Enterprises was on the front cover. She whistled lowly and muttered to herself, "Holy..."

"What's up?"

"Gah!" With a start, she turned to Angie, curiously eying her over the cubicle wall. Caroline recovered and shook her head. "Nothing, don't worry about it."

After being dismissed so easily Angie shrugged and sat back down in her desk. She began talking with Lauren about a party she was going to tonight; Lauren should come. Lauren would _totally _love to come.

Caroline ignored the pang of jealousy, but insisted it was better this way; she had things to do. After a few quick thoughts about bridge-playing, she went back to work.

After flipping through a few pages she saw that this was meant to be a catalog. Something about merging documents from the Applied Sciences division at Wayne Enterprises, and then storing it in the Archives department... what really caught her attention were what the documents were of. Most were prototypes and schematics, far too complex for use by the general public—and the further she read on the more she realized that the general public was never meant to look upon these. Not just because they seemed to be government-funded top-class military projects, but that most had been put to a halt. Lack of funding, lack of interest, contract expired... in one way or another, these projects never reached completion.

Caroline never imagined Wayne Enterprises to have such an active research and development department.

Eventually ignoring the other girls became quite easy; the passion she felt when she used to be in her engineering courses came back and ran fresh through her veins. When she read a programming code, she knew what it meant. When she examined a schematic, she could imagine putting together each piece. When she read the notes and saw the faults she started concocting plans that would make it work—

"—and then he barfed on the sofa! I had to go buy a new one! Do you know how expensive it is to get a _couch _delivered to a _walkup _apartment in the _Narrows_?"

... and then she was dragged back to reality.

That nagging voice was back. _Get over it, hon_, it said. _If you wanted create stuff like this, you would've staid in university. You chose to get out. So focus and do your job. _

With a bitter frown Caroline bent back over her desk, but thought back to the voice, _... I didn't exactly have a choice. _

Some hair fell in front of her gaze. There was this one lock she had to the side of her face that had a habit of curling more and refused to behave. It would slide back from behind her ear and fall in her view constantly. Already in a bad mood, she shoved a paper clip into her hair, the jagged metal tugging it back and keeping it in place as she continued her mundane life of professional stapling and spellchecking.

* * *

She hated the subway. Hated, hated, hated the subway.

Oh sure, it was relatively new to Gotham, but like every new and shiny thing in Gotham, it quickly becomes overrun with gangs and drug dealers and it feels like the mob owns it. That's what happened in the Narrows—low-income housing in safe neighborhoods, close to the hospital... except the hospital was converted into an asylum and the housing became cheap hovels for brothels and mobsters and grow-ops—

Initial intentions are great, but never seem to last an idea's lifetime.

Yes, she did own a car. It was an old Honda that made a myriad of noises, but frankly, she had never been too comfortable behind the wheel, and avoided it as much as possible.

But on a day like today, when she had to drive her dad to the doctor's before work, she was forced to be in her car.

And if she hated anything more, she _hated_ bumper-to-bumper traffic.

Between deep breaths, trying to keep her anxiety in check as the time behind the wheel dragged on and on, Caroline watched other drivers and pedestrians. She tapped her hands anxiously on her steering wheel, trying to focus on something on the sidewalk, anything. What she saw were newspapers, lots of them, and the similar headlines across them all.** BRUCE WAYNE IS BACK**, they proclaimed.

Caroline wrinkled her nose with thought. Wasn't Bruce Wayne declared dead a few years ago? It was when she first came back to Gotham after university—she remembered finding it humorous that his butler got all the money. Had anyone considered the butler to be the reason he was missing in the first place? Had _anyone _thought of that? Motive much? Even if it was completely cliché.

But Bruce Wayne was back; her client had returned to take over the business.

Did that mean anything? No, probably not. There was no way she would ever see him-behind the scenes paper-pushers don't get to meet millionaires.

* * *

The way her coworkers talked, though? They seemed pretty determined to run into Bruce Wayne before too long, and seduce him into marrying her. The talk was pretty nauseating after a few hours, with the ogling over his looks and his money... She worked through lunch just to avoid them all and managed to finish her Wayne work shortly after. Before going through the regular sweep of her computer, she checked in with Brian.

He looked a bit annoyed by her information. "Okay, so you're heading to Wayne Enterprises then?"

Caroline frowned. "I didn't know we hand-delive—"

"Yeah, well, for the big guys, we do," Brian cut her off and spoke to her like she was a child. "If we want to them to use us again, we need to kiss their ass a little bit. Okay?" Before she could reply he was on the phone again with whoever.

She hadn't hand-delivered any material before, but it couldn't be that difficult. The file said to go see a Mr. Earl—

"Oh, hey, Carrie."

She turned back in time to see Brian waving some papers at her. "Take these to the Utilities department beside Wayne Tower." She recognized the documents—more confidential material. They had to update the maps of the water and electrical lines for Gotham City. It had been a pain in the ass, but it was finally finished.

Soon enough she was on the subway riding to Wayne Tower (like hell she was paying to park in two different parkades in one day). It wasn't crowded so she had a seat to herself, holding her shoulder bag in her lap, classified documents in her grasp. As she looked around she saw a few new newspapers; a passenger beside her was reading about the latest mob case. Another criminal had pleaded insanity while a brunette district attorney looked pissed off and told the paper exactly what she thought with some choice words.

Of all the places she had lived growing up, Gotham was the most distraught. How someone could raise a child here, she had no idea. If a child grows up around hate and suffering there is little doubt they will only create and breed more of it... maybe that's why Gotham is stuck in such a deep pit. And the few people willing to fight, like the district attorney in the paper, are made as targets for the mob and never stick around long enough to do a good job.

_Either that, or someone finally offers enough money to turn them to the dark side, _her inner critic pointed out. _It's very hard to live the hero life around here_.

Caroline's morbid thoughts had to be put on hold when she reached her stop. She joined the crowd pushing through the too-small doors and only followed half of them into Wayne Tower.

Sure, she expected a lavish lobby with the grey marble tile and black accents with gold chandeliers—even though chandeliers in a lobby was pretty pompous, in her opinion, but whatever—and she had told herself there would be some misogynistic men with their puffy suits, staring down their noses at the cute little girl from consulting, but she wasn't expecting the intimidation from all the women. Every fashion model—oops, she meant business woman—was in tight skirts that hugged every curve, sharp suit jackets, even sharper haircuts, wearing deadly sharp spiked heels that clacked along the marble with each step. This was surprisingly nerve wracking and for one of the few times in her life, she really, really hated her clothes. There's nothing wrong with dress pants and a sweater set, but she felt completely frumpy amongst these goddesses.

It was too hard to walk in with her head high at the moment and she secretly hated herself for it.

The receptionist, another Amazonian beauty, wasn't helping.

"So you don't have an appointment," she tried to clarify, eyes narrowing as she spoke, "but you have a package for Mr. Earle and you need to give it to him directly?"

Caroline started to flush just from the nervousness. "He requested some work done by Greystoke Consulting—we completed it earlier than planned." She swallowed—her throat was dry as cotton. "His assistant may know of this?"

The receptionist tried that, and thankfully it worked. After a very long elevator ride up to Mr. Earle's office—apparently the guy who ran the company got the penthouse office... but wait, wouldn't Bruce Wayne be running the company? Oh, never mind—Mr. Earle didn't even give her work a second glance.

"I'll admit, I'm very happy with the prompt service," he told her, holding the catalog in his hands, as if to test its heaviness but never flipping a page to ensure it's content. "And all information has been dealt with on your end?"

"Absolutely," Caroline replied, all the while eying his $7000 suit with the flakes of dandruff dusting his shoulders. Why did she want to grin right now? Geez, Caroline, pull it together. "Greystoke disposes of all client information responsibly and thoroughly."

Mr. Earle smiled only a bit more enthusiastically at this. "Excellent, because by next week all that will exist of the R&D department is this." He turned to the other two board members in the room, sharing a private grin. "No need keeping Fox and a bunch of defunct products with no foreseeable profit."

The men only grinned back, and before Caroline could react to it, Earle leaned forward and mentioned, "The only reason we did this," he held the book up, "is to make sure auditing has all the info in a secure spot."

... oookay.

Suddenly, he handed it back to her. "Actually, would you mind taking this down there-that's Basement 2 on the elevator. Just," he smiled again, only it looked a bit more smarmy this time, "don't mention the closing of the department. You can keep a secret, right?"

As he laughed, as if it was all a big joke, Caroline noted a few extra flakes fall from his snow-white hair managed to keep her professional-face on. "Certainly, sir." Her voice, on the other hand, was much more monotone than before. "Please consider Greystone in the future for any other business needs."

During the elevator ride down, apart from feeling like a bike messenger, Caroline felt a bit gross about the Wayne company. Fox was obviously someone who worked in R&D, and his job was just going to get thrown out? Yes, from a business standpoint, having this much storage and materials in a department that will never gain profit is a dumb move. But she thinks about how it would be if her job was suddenly brushed aside by a big, faceless corporation, and how screwed she would be in that position.

It's not much of a faceless corporation any more, though... she only had to imagine that smarmy smile and dandruff and feel gross again.

Maybe next time she'll bring by a complimentary bottle of Head & Shoulders.

The minute the doors open to the Basement Level 2 (which took a solid 10 minutes to get to, with all the hopping on and off of other Wayne Tower employees) she was surprised by the lack of marble and crystals and general fanciness. This felt like a garage. A clean garage, but this was a garage nonetheless. There was a desk to her left, that she slowly walked up to, but it was empty. There was some paperwork left out, a computer on stand-by, and a tag that read LUCIUS FOX. So that must be the Fox Mr. Earle spoke of.

Her footsteps slowed beside the desk, staring at it, biting her lip with confusion as to what to do, so she looked at her surroundings again. Weird. "I didn't see that coming..." she said to no one in particular.

"Well, it's not as fancy as the lobby."

"Geez-" she cut herself short when she heard the voice to her right, not expecting a reply. What's worse is her whole body reacted, jumping at the sound and she felt like an idiot for overreacting. The catalog was clutched to her chest now like a shield.

Thankfully her whole reaction was funny to _someone_. The person who spoke laughed; it was a deep, rough but warm laugh that instantly calmed her nerves. He stood a little ways down an aisle to her right, having only become visible when she had moved to the desks. He was near some drawers, and he had a visitor beside him.

If she hadn't seen the newspapers today, she wouldn't have recognized Bruce Wayne.

* * *

TBC...


	2. Drop and Run

A/N: Here's the second chapter super-fast because I don't quite like the last one... this one has some action. Enjoy!

***As usual, I do not own Batman/Bruce Wayne/Alfred Pennyworth/Anything in the Gotham universe. All I own is Caroline Hames and her story. No copyright infringement intended.

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Of all the things she expected today, this was the last thing on the list. Actually, this wasn't even on the list. This was on someone else's list, and it seemed that her presence in Applied Sciences was just as unexpected.

The man, who she assumed to be Lucius Fox, and Bruce Wayne were standing over some very heavy duty drawers, looking at... equipment? Armour of some kind. Either way, they both knew why they were there – it still wasn't obvious what Caroline was doing. Maybe they don't get a lot of company down here in Basement Level 2.

Thankfully she came back to her senses; the professional face turned back on, she fell back into her step, and moved forward. This is how her normal anxious self worked: whenever something became too much, some part of her brain overrode her system. At least she seemed like a functional human being.

"Mr. Fox?" she asked tentatively. When he nodded in response, she held out her hand. "I'm sorry to interrupt—Caroline Hames from Greystoke Consulting. I have the catalogue that was requested."

A glimmer of recognition runs through his eyes as he shakes her hand. "Oh yes—that was quick."

She smiled again. "Customer satisfaction guaranteed," she joked before passing it to him.

Fox grinned at the attempt at humour and flipped through a few pages, and unfortunately Caroline thought it would be smart time to steal a look at the Prince of Gotham.

Actually, Bruce Wayne was looking right at her. Wow, her coworkers weren't exaggerating – the man was gorgeous. It wasn't just his brown hair (trimmed and combed back to perfection) or his blue eyes (eyeing her with amusement) or his beautifully built body (at least six feet tall and built like an athlete): there was something in his demeanour. That's probably a four thousand dollar suit that he's wearing, and yet he's got his hands shoved in his pockets with a smirk on his face.

It was... charming. In a bit of an immature way. But charming nonetheless.

Her overall assessment of him distracted from the fact that he was still looking at her. Holy crap, she had just been eyeing him up like a piece of meat, and he _let _her. What was wrong with her? Embarrassment flushed her cheeks until she turned her gaze from his baby blues. This left her looking at the drawer. It really did look like armour.

Trying to be conversational—and because, for some stupid reason, she knew if she didn't attempt to talk to him, her coworkers would find out somehow and she would never hear the end of it—she cleared her throat gently.

"That's some serious stuff," she said, gesturing at the armour.

Bruce's amusement turned into a boyish grin at her teasing tone. "So I've been told."

"It's for spelunking," Fox murmured dismissively, still flipping through some pages and obviously not up for offering any more information.

Try as she might, Caroline's eyebrows flew up in disbelief. Her gaze went back to Bruce after Fox's comment. "Spelunking?"

He nodded. "You know, cave diving."

"I know what spelunking is."

"Then why the surprise?"

She had to stop, taking control of her words. She probably sounded very critical. As if a billionaire doesn't know how to spelunk (he only knows how to buy buildings and schmooze models) which wasn't what she was getting at. "I don't—sorry. I didn't think it was that...hardcore, is all." She grimaced as another thought crossed her brain. "Well, actually, landing on a stalagmite would hurt—the armour makes a lot of sense." And then her brain caught up with her rambling. "And I'm rambling. Sorry."

Bruce simply kept his smile going. "It's not a problem."

It was only a few seconds more of sharing polite eye-contact, but it was already enough for her to read too much into things. So much so that when Fox finally spoke up again, the noise seemed deafening and she almost jumped again. God, she looked like the most out-of-control person today.

"This looks good, Miss Hames," Fox interjected, closing her catalogue and addressing her again. "Thank you very much."

She shook her head dismissively. "Not at all—it's what we do." As Fox reached out to shake her hand once again, she spewed the regular Greystoke schpeel. "If you ever require our services again, please don't hesitate to call."

For some reason it felt wrong to ignore him—that would just be bad for business—so she awkwardly turned and extended her hand to the billionaire. Thankfully, Bruce graciously took it without skipping a beat. His hands seemed...rougher than a billionaire's should be. Odd.

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Wayne."

"You as well, Miss Hames."

It was a very quick transaction, in comparison to all the pompous laughing and we-own-Gotham plotting happening upstairs. Nothing especially out of the ordinary. Except for the Prince of Gotham.

So why on earth did she feel compelled to say anything more? Especially when the elevator had already arrived for her, and she didn't _have _to stick around for awkward small talk. Never the less, some silly part in the back of her mind made her turn around when the doors opened.

She called out, "Mr. Wayne?"

The pair turned.

She smiled somewhat shyly. "Welcome back."

Bruce grinned at her once more and before she could embarrass herself further, she turned to the elevator. Still, while she was waiting for the doors to close, the noise carried through the empty garage-like space, and she heard Mr Wayne say quietly, "She's cute."

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How an individual can walk across four major uptown intersections, board a train and ride an elevator while deep in trance, she didn't know, but eventually Caroline woke up when the elevator of her building dinged at her floor. Shaking her head, realizing she was the last one on the elevator, she composed herself before walking back to her office.

Of course, as soon as the door opened one of her coworkers asked, "So?! Did you see him?!"

_Geez, give a woman a chance to get her alibi ready_, Caroline thought, she hadn't even closed the door to the office yet (her hand was still on the knob, for Christs sake) and unfortunately her unpreparedness let slip a bit in her expression.

The co-worker, Angie, gaped and giggled. "You did! What happened?!"

Caroline bit her lip, trying to buy some time and also trying to act like a normal supervisor that didn't add to the office gossip. But, that being said, it would be hard to brush this off. Eventually she came in, sat at her desk and stowed her bag away before answering. "He was having a meeting with Mr. Fox when I arrived."

"Did he talk to you?"

"Just some polite conversation."

"What did you say?"

"I said welcome back."

"That's it?!"

Caroline frowned (borderline pouted). "What would you propose-"

" 'Can I jump your bones? As a welcome back present?'"

Caroline blushed bright red while Lauren and another co-worker started giggling at the idea. "Angie! What the hell-?"

"Ladies!"

The door to Brian's office opened; he frowned at the lot of them. "I'm sure there's some paperwork that you need to do. If not, I will GLADLY find some for you!"

Oh, he had work for them all, alright; he hadn't been kidding earlier, when he said he was buried. As everyone was handed a stack of paperwork, and as more groaning filled the air, it was becoming obvious that this was going to be a late night. Caroline lowered her head behind her cubicle and dialed home.

"... Hi Dad. How was today?... That's the mailman. You know him... he's been the same mailman for the last eight months, Daddy... right... Dad... listen, Dad," she looked over her shoulder, trying to speak a bit quieter even though she had to talk over him.

"Dad, I'm working late... Pretty late. We all are. Just... just lock up before you go to bed. Don't wait up for me. No, I mean it—you don't need to wait up for me. Can you make yourself a sandwich—Dad, no—_Dad_, you don't remember to turn the stove off when you cook. Can... thank you. Alright. I'll be home late. Sleep tight... I love you too."

Once the phone was down she shook her arms out and ran her hands through her hair. There was also a bundle of nerves in her stomach at the idea of her Dad cooking without supervision... but she had no choice today. The pile of paperwork that appeared on her desk made sure she wasn't leaving while the sun was up today.

Suddenly she couldn't recall if she had gone to the Utilities department. She dove for her purse—shit! She had been _right beside _the Utilities department, right at Wayne Tower, and she had forgotten to deliver it?! Christ, Caroline, one guy bats his girly-man eyelashes at you and calls you cute, and you become a useless pile of hormones. What's wrong with you?!

But the file was gone. So had she made the little detour to the Utilities department? Had she? Maybe; the walk from Wayne Tower back to here was all a blur. She just hoped she had, otherwise, no matter how great her work was for Wayne, she'd be in deep trouble.

Eventually the grumbling regarding the overtime ceased and the girls bowed their heads and worked. That was the wonder of this department—yes, the girls spoke about boys and gossiped too much, but the work ethic was there when they need it to be.

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That is, until the boss ducks out without a word.

Caroline had heard his office door close around 5:00, and saw Brian pulling his jacket on before walking to the kitchen (the kitchen was beside Caroline's desk, so she saw anyone that came through it. She also knew if anyone would try to sneak out of work through the emergency exit door in said kitchen... just like Brian was doing.

Caroline put her pen down and wheeled out of her cubicle a tad, watching, trying to convince herself that she wasn't actually seeing this. But sure enough, Brian had his suitcase under his arm, his car keys in hand, and he reached the door. He opened it, looking over his shoulder to see if he had been caught—and he had, but looked no more remorseful about it. Brian simply nodded to her. "Call me if there's any trouble."

Caroline's shoulders sagged and she tried not to glare. She didn't bother keeping her voice down, though, when she called out, "Seriously?"

Angie and Lauren looked up, wondering what was happening, but it didn't take long for them to see Brian's office was empty.

Brian frowned at Caroline. "I have a thing tonight—you're in charge. See you tomorrow."

And he was gone.

Angie stood up so fast her chair wheeled back into the far wall with a bang, making the others look up. Angie leaned over the wall to look at Caroline. "Did Brian just ditch?!"

As much as she hated to admit it, Caroline nodded, and a chorus of expletives filled the air before she could stop it. Quickly, she stood up and held her hands up. "Girls, _girls, _c'mon," she encouraged. "What's done is done. Our boss is a jerk. Lets just put a few hours in and we'll call it a night." She tried to put on her most determined face. "I'm not leaving."

Eventually, the talk of vandalizing Brian's office faded out and everyone went back to work. The stacks were getting smaller but the shadow caused by Gotham's setting sun grew longer and longer.

Sliding another paper to the 'done' pile made Caroline glance at the clock. Her eyes widened; holy shit, it was _late_. She hadn't planned on it being that late. On the other hand, she was proud of her co-workers for buckling down and getting things done.

"Okay, everyone stop," she said, her voice in the quiet causing some girls to jump. "It's past nine. Let's go home."

There were a few sighs of relief but some were just as shocked as she was. Nonetheless the exhausted group slowly started to turn their computers off and grab their purses.

As Caroline decided she would cheat a little and bring some paperwork home for homework, she absentmindedly heard footsteps down the hallway outside the office. The walls were quite thin, so noise was normal...just not for this time of night. And this wasn't the sound of one person, this was a parade of elephants that seemed to be stumbling down. Her eyes followed the noise along the wall as it moved away from her, her anticipation rising with every yard crossed, around the corner, and closer to the door—

_BANG! _

Lauren and Angie screamed when the main door was suddenly kicked in—it was thunderous compared to Caroline's voice earlier. A second scream was had when the visitors revealed themselves.

"Evening, ladies!"

There were five men, big, burly dangerous types that you would find at any bar in the Narrows, and all of them had guns. Sight of the weaponry made all the employees freeze, but what really caused fear was the appearance of the ringleader. He was ... quite a bit smaller than the rest of them. And wearing a suit, no less, but what was the strangest was the mask he wore on his head, made of crudely cut canvas. There were ragged holes for the eyes and the mouth was stitched shut; it was as if he wore a jack-o-lantern made of cloth.

It was downright Jeepers-Creepers creepy.

He strode in casually, and for some reason Caroline's instinct made her lower herself into her cubicle. She was around the corner, not easily seen from the doorway, and for some reason maybe she could avoid being seen. This may be beneficial in the future.

A part of her wondered what made her body enter defense mode that fast.

"I'm hoping for some cooperation," the masked man said, his voice light but condescending all at once.

"What do you want?" Angie asked, some anger in her voice.

No one could see it, but the whole room felt the masked man smiling...as if he was hoping for a bit of rebelliousness. As if it was more _fun _this way.

"Something simple," he continued, striding along idly. The men with guns staid near the door—as if they thought it was the only way out. Maybe they _did _think it was the only way out. The kitchen still had the exit door... one that they could only reach _after _they worked their way through the cubicle maze.

This could also be beneficial. But Caroline stayed put; as far as she knew, she still hadn't been spotted.

The masked man walked along the aisle of cubicles, hand brushing the wall. His flippant air was unnerving; if he had thought this would be easy, why did he feel the need to bring the brawn and artillery? "There's some files from Gotham City Services," he mentioned. "Files regarding the water lines."

Caroline swallowed hard; her throat was like cotton.

"We don't have them anymore," a co-worker, Margaret, spoke up, still in her chair, clutching her purse as she stated the obvious. What Caroline didn't see was that her hand was in her purse, gripped around her cell phone. And what Margaret didn't see was that Lauren already had her office phone receiver off the hook, dialing 911, covering the earpiece so that the operator could hear the situation but the warbling of the operator wasn't heard by the intruders.

The masked man paused and contemplated her. "I'm sure you could find them."

Margaret frowned. "Even if we _did _have them, we wouldn't hand them over—"

Before anyone could react the man lifted his arm and something erupted from the sleeve of his jacket. White powder flew into Margaret's face, causing her to cough so hard she dropped her purse, breathing it in, and when she sat up and saw the man's face...

...well, she started to scream. The kind of scream that made your blood curdle. Margaret was _terrified_.

Caroline gaped and sunk deeper in her cubicle. What the hell was that-?

"Like I said, ladies," he said again, gripping Margaret's hair tightly as he forced her to look at him, which only made the poor girl squirm and shriek as the hallucinogen took its toll on her mind. "I'm sure we could find them if we looked hard enough."

This wasn't good. What the hell had he done to Margaret? If we keep telling him the obvious he's just going to gas all of them, but there's nothing to give him—and if we gave him something fake then who's to say he won't come back later, when he found out? Oh god, what to do—

_Use a decoy_, her inner critic suddenly thought up.

Caroline frowned at this. _I just said that a decoy wouldn't work—_

_Don't _give _it to them,_ her mind prodded. _Fake that you have it and run off. _

It was quite a simple thing to do—her car keys were in her hands already. Her purse was still in the bottom of the self-locking drawer of her desk. There was a spare CD and a spare tradeshow notebook sitting on her desk within easy reach.

And the coffee room was _right there_...

Common sense left the building and sheer madness took over.

In a swift move, Caroline simultaneously kicked her drawer shut, scooped up the CD and notebook and dashed up to the coffee room, making sure they could see that she had the disc and papers in hand. Sure enough, just as she reached the spare door, she heard the masked man yell, "Get her!"

She slammed the door shut behind her and began to dash down the steps as fast as she could, two at a time. There was no time to be scared or to even think at this moment—she thought the plan out mere seconds ago. Her body, pushed by a sudden rush of adrenaline, was simply following the steps. Being scared was not in that plan. There were two sets of stairs in this service stairwell and then she'd be let out in a lobby with access to elevators.

She reached the second floor just as she heard the door open up above and the thundering of footsteps fill the echoing stairwell.

Running out to the lobby she made it to the elevator, furiously pushing the down button. By some miracle the elevator was already there—the intruders must have used the elevator to come up—and she ran inside. Unfortunately it was at the same time that the men made it down the stairwell. Just before the doors shut two gunshots rang out. Caroline jumped back to the far wall of the elevator, the noise jerking her nerves, only to die out when the doors shut.

Admist the elevator muzak, she was breathing hard, staring at the numbers illuminate as she went past each floor.

_This is a horrible idea, _her critic argued.

_Too fucking late now, _she thought back. _Already in this mess. _

_You are GOING TO DIE. _

Caroline tried to ignore it. She really did. All she had to do was get to the fifth floor. She was on the fourteenth; the fifth floor was the pedway to the parkade. All she needed was the fifth floor-

For a strange moment she looked down at her flats and remembered all the pumps and stilettos in Wayne Enterprises. She smirked. None of those girls could do what she had just done.

Take that, fashion.

_There_! Once the doors opened for the fifth floor she booked it down the hallway, gripping keys in hand, holding her key card keychain out to open the security doors at the pedway. With a quick swipe she was in and running above a busy Gotham street. She knew that those glass doors wouldn't hold for long though; she pushed herself to run as fast as she could.

_Just get to the car, just get to the car, get to the car—_

More gunshots rang out, just as she reached the parkade entrance. She screamed, instantly crouching, and heard the glass behind her crash and the voices of the men behind her. Geezus, how many followed her?!

No time to turn around—get to the car.

Never in her whole life had she been so happy to get a parking spot near the door. After a frantic moment with the keys, her meager Honda roared to life. The CD and book were thrown idly on the passenger's seat before she spun her tires trying to drive out of her space. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a grubby white van with blacked out windows, parked nowhere near the lines. To her disappointment she realized this must be the thugs' getaway car. She hadn't thought of the possibility of them following her.

She only got two floors down the parkade when she heard more squealing tires that were not her own. Shit, they were catching up. She needed to get somewhere where she could outrun them. Yeah, she was driving an old Honda, but they were in a grubby van; if the opportunity should present itself, she could outrun them.

What if the cops caught her speeding?

Actually, cop involvement would help, at this point.

_If you go across the Sprang Bridge, you can get to the Robert Kane bridge,_ her mind told her. _That's the longest and fastest stretch of road around here. Go! _

Like a bat out of hell she turned left out the parkade, the tires skidded violently as she fishtailed before shooting down the road. Quickly she was on the very familiar Sprang Bridge. There was barely any traffic right now. She stole a glance in her rear-view mirror—shit! They were behind her!

Dodging back and forth between the lanes wasn't helping; the lack of traffic made it just as easy for her followers to trial. She tried increasing her speed—looking down at her dash she saw her as clocking 75 mph.

She didn't think her car could go this fast.

A light turned yellow up ahead. Her heart stopped for a moment at the sight of it. _Oh god, I can't stop_—_but you should stop_—her palms felt very sweaty against the wheel—her breathing turned rapid—and finally she floored the gas pedal, speeding through the light. She heard one car honk at her as she sped past, but she got through the intersection unscathed... except for the very real panic attack she was having in the driver's seat.

But soon there were even more honks behind her. That could only mean that the van had pulled through as well.

The rain started to pour shortly before she got onto Robert Kane Bridge, which did nothing to calm her nerves. Flashbacks to another particularly stormy day—filled with yellow lights and screeching cars—filled her mind but she tried to shake her head to rid of them.

She tried a distraction—as if the car chase wasn't enough—and saw the lights of Amusement Mile to her lift, twinkling happily, the Ferris wheel rolling round. If only those carnival goers had any idea—

Unfortunately the van was getting closer to her as she neared the end of Robert Kane. The plan hadn't been planned much farther than this; she was hoping she would've lost them by now, or that the cops would have caught on to them.

Knowing she couldn't drive out into the country, she exited left, towards the Palisades. Maybe she could circle back around, back to the city, loose them in traffic or in another parkade—

A gunshot rang so loudly that her ear went dear—and the corresponding bullet plowed through her windshield. She screamed at the sound; looking in her rear-view she saw that the van was right behind her.

Now fucking what?!

This was the worst idea ever! They'd get her out in the middle of nowhere and she was going to be shot or hit by another car and why the hell did she get her licence and what was the point of taking decoy papers and-

The freeway narrowed down to four lanes and a cement barrier. She tried to get some space between her and her pursuers, but between the rain splattering over her cracked windshield, the rain coming through the bullet holes, the continuing gunfire making her jump and the lack of traffic to hide behind, she wasn't getting anywhere fast.

And worst case scenario... her tire blew.

"No!" she shouted as she felt the wheel pull her towards the wall. Just as her front bumper hit the embankment, the white van crashed into her car. The Honda spun out, but the van tilted precariously as it skidded, causing it to turn and roll over. The air filled with the deafening screech of wet tires and crunching metal for a moment; the Honda hit the divider and did a full roll, landing back on its wheels, the top crushed, before it went silent.

Caroline panted heavily, into the airbag, fingers poised against the roof of her car from when she had flipped. Her knuckles were white. Her seatbelt had done the job of keeping her in her seat, but it was locked and pulled harshly against her neck.

The white van, although smoking, was silent. There was the shadow of two figures in the front seat, whether they were alive or not, she had no idea. All she heard for the moment was the sound of the rain.

She had to get away.

She shoved the airbag back down, beating it into submission and undid her seatbelt, and was surprised that she could still move, in spite of the horrific car crash. Parts and muscles were aching, that's for sure; something was dribbling down her face before she even stepped out into the rain. It was probably her own blood. But a quick shake of each limb proved that she was, indeed, in one piece and functioning.

She left the CD and paper—it would be obvious to them now that this was not what they were looking for, and she ran down the highway.

_New plan, _her instincts, calm as ever, told her. _Get to the nearest driveway and hide. _

_._

_._

_._

_._

This plan may have worked if she actually had any idea of how far apart properties were in the Palisades. This was pretty much backcountry; the woods were so thick in some parts that if a car came by—hopefully one not filled with thugs—she would actually have a hard time getting into the bushes to duck and hide.

The adrenaline is long gone and she's starting to feel the strain she put on her body when she ran like mad. Her flats chaffed against the back of her ankles; her calves are crying out in pain; her chest is sore from breathing so hard and so fast; she may even have a bruised rib.

Caroline staggered over to the side of the road, leaning against the brick, trying to catch her breath. All she wanted to do was sit down and give up, just sleep, but that would be pointless. She'd die of hypothermia out here in the rain; she didn't even have her cell phone to call anyone, she left that in her purse—

...wait a minute.

Brick?

She pulled her head up sharply and looked up at her supporting post. It was a huge brick spire... one that connected to a gate! A gate to a house!

Following the ten-foot-tall iron fence over, she found the driveway to the home. Past the gate there were lights that illuminated the drive, the and in the distance she saw a huge manor, lit up like the light house. Holy crap...who could live here?

Did it really matter right now, Caroline?

Right now what did matter was the obstacle of the fence. The gate didn't budge when she shook it, and she was certainly not in the shape to climb it. But beside the gate was a keypad. Unsure of what to do, she hit the 'call' button. There was no ringtone... so was it a speaker?

She pressed the button and held it down this time. "H-Hello?" she called out hesitantly. "Hello? Is anyone there?"

There was no screen to the keypad; she had no idea if anyone was listening. But did she have anything better to do at the moment?

Exactly.

"Please," she said in a loud voice, as if she was yelling up to the house itself. "Please, I... I just got chased here in my car... it's a wreck, now... I need to call the cops, or something... Please... Hello?!"

She started to get a bit frantic after hearing nothing.

"Please! I need help! Help me, please!"

Her hands wrapped around the fence, gripping tightly. Her feet started to give way and she sank as she got her last shout out. "They, they were chasing me... please, I need help... "

Knees hit the gravel ground, instantly soaking her pants through to her skin. She pressed her hot forehead against the cool iron bars and felt a bit of relief there, but she was still overheated. She was exhausted. And sore. And too tired to even be scared...she had no more fight in her.

"Please..." she mumbled.

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She didn't know how long she had knelt there but she wasn't aware of the sound of shoes on gravel until it was twenty feet from the fence. With a start she sat up and looked over her shoulder, but there was no one there. Then where...?

Someone was walking down the long driveway, umbrella over their head. They were hustling towards her, as quick as they could. Slowly, Caroline started to sit up, squinting in the dark, but wincing when her cold knees ached in protest. Crap, she thought she was in good shape.

It was an older man, taller than her, walking with a straight back, wearing a sweater over a dress shirt and tie. His hair was white and his eyes blue. Other than that Caroline's vision couldn't focus much more.

"Tried calling to you through the key pad to step back from the gate," he spoke with an English accent as he reached her. His voice was light, but very business at the same time; it made her own back straighten as if this was all for propriety's sake. Aching muscles and bleeding foreheads be damned, at the end of the day, it's about _propriety_.

He stepped towards the key pad on his side of the gate, one Caroline hadn't noticed, and supposedly pressed in a code. There was a beeping noise and he was able to manually pull the iron bars back. "But it must be broken on your end." He leaned down, holding the umbrella over her head, blocking the rain. "Are you alright, miss?"

Caroline was speechless. Only a minute ago she had given up hope of being found before morning, so she wasn't expecting this... all she could do for a moment was nod.

The man smiled, the warmth showing through to his eyes, and offered his hand. After taking it, he wrapped hers in the crook of his arm. "Let's get you inside," he suggested, helping her walk.

Caroline nodded, not thinking twice as they moved up the driveway, the gate—emblazoned with a large, wrought-iron scrawled 'W'—closed behind them.

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The manor didn't look this big when she was staring at it from the gate, but even now that she was walking past the stone pillars, up brushed stone stairs and stepping into the marble foyer, Caroline couldn't comprehend the size. She stood in the landing as the man put his umbrella down, and her eyes travelled over the enormous chandelier, the grand staircase, all the decorative wood; everything seeming very old and ancestral, like this was a place of old family values and was well maintained... yet she didn't hear another soul in the house.

Eventually, Caroline's eyes landed on one of the two mirrors hanging on the walls near the door, and she gasped at her reflection. Holy train-wreck! She didn't remember feeling as bad as she looked when her car had rolled, but her bottom lip split, a cut above her brow was trickling blood down her face, her mascara had run in the rain (making her racoon-eyed), a large bruise was forming on her left forearm and it looked like she had road rash across her neck and shoulder.

Don't even ask how her sweater set looked.

"I look horrible," she said stupidly.

"Nothing some Band-Aids can't fix," the man said encouragingly, his voice making her turn to him. He smiled, a gesture she hadn't seen in hours. "At least from what I can see. Do you need me to call an ambulance, miss?"

Caroline tried to feel out her body. Other than exhaustion, nothing seemed to be wrong. She shook her head. "No... thank you."

"The police, then?"

The idea made her sick to her stomach. "I-I think they were already called, back at the office," she said thoughtfully.

The man watched her for a moment, giving her a second to sort out her thoughts, before suggesting politely, "I'll find you a change of clothes; we can wash yours up."

Caroline started at this, but still in a daze, she nodded. She was about to take a step forward when her foot gave out under her weight. The man stepped up quickly to grasp her arm and hold her up. After she regained her balance he grinned and said with a bit of dry humour, "Maybe a cup of tea first."

"S-Sorry," she stammered, feeling embarrassed about being such a nervous wreck, but let him walk her back through the house. She passed a library; a grand hall that she could only imagine would be used for balls or galas, a den—or a gym? It was filled with weights and machines—and then she was in the kitchen. In spite of the houses age, the counters were stainless steel and appliances were top of the line.

In spite of how grand this house was, and all the amenities it boasted... why was it empty? Was the old man living here by himself?

This was starting to feel like a horror movie.

... in spite of the traumatizing car chase that already happened.

The man sat her at the plain wood table—getting off her feet finally gave her some relief—before moving into the kitchen. Caroline found herself sinking against the wooden chair easily, and then she had to resist the urge to close her eyes and drift to sleep. This was not the time for napping, no matter how tired she was.

_What is it time for, then? _Her critic asked annoyingly. _Are you going to call the cops? No, because you don't want to get involved with the paperwork. And now you have no car—probably won't get the guts to drive another one ever again. Way to go, genius. And you left your co-workers back there with that, that, that _maniac! _What kind of supervisor are you?! And now you've ruined this poor old English guy's evening. Honestly. You're the worst human being ever._

"Earl Grey alright, miss?"

Caroline blinked herself awake. Holy crap, she drifted off, didn't she? "Yes," she muttered, and tried to distract herself while he set about making her tea.

She started looking around again. The thought just occurred to her that she was inside a mansion. She never thought she'd be in a mansion in her lifetime. It was so grand and elegant and over-the-top, speaking of a time in another world where having a separate sitting room for morning and afternoon tea was a standard, and anything less was absurd. Oh, nineteenth-century problems... what she wouldn't give to have _those_ right now.

Strange what the mind focuses on when it goes into shock.

While the tea brewed a plate of cookies and scones appeared before her. She stared up at the man once he set the plate down.

"Eat up," he encouraged. "You'll feel better."

It was more a command than a suggestion, and after an awkward staring contest—obviously he wasn't going to let up until she listened—and more out of fear of reprimand than anything else, Caroline nodded and obediently began to nibble on a cheese scone. Mmm... this was good. Suddenly she was famished and eating it quickly and was onto her next.

Satisfied, the man stepped away for a moment, moving to a kitchen cupboard. He came back with a first aid kit and sat beside her, opening its contents and began to wipe at her cuts. She sat still as he worked.

"So," the man queried, setting some dirty bandages aside. "If you don't mind me asking, miss, how did you get like this?"

The scone was suddenly hard to swallow. "I," she started, coughing a moment. "It's a long story."

Again he had that stern look on his face.

He was good at that.

"Um, I work at an office downtown," she started. "Some... thugs? Mobsters... I don't know, they broke in and were looking for something, something we, honestly, didn't have anymore... But they had g-guns—"

Somewhere in the distance a door closed. Apparently Caroline's nerves were still on-edge because the noise made her jump and twist in her chair, away from the man's hands. She stared down the hall behind her. Footsteps were approaching.

"Alfred?"

"In here, sir," the man said loud enough for him to hear. Caroline breathed out; at least this man was expecting this other person. But it didn't make her less nervous.

The tea started to squeal and the man, Alfred, stood to get it. "We have a guest, sir," he announced again.

There was a pause in the steps, as if this was weird news—and it probably was. What time was it? People would not have guests at 9:30 at night on a Tuesday—but whoever it was continued into the hall.

And when the newcomer revealed themselves Caroline dropped her last scone.

Bruce Wayne narrowed his eyes. "Miss Hames?"

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TBC...


	3. Safe and Sound

A/N: Usual disclaimer: I do not known Batman/Bruce Wayne/Anything in the Gotham universe/Anything in the Nolan universe. This is for entertainment purposes only. The only thing I own is the character Caroline Hames and her story. No copyright infringement intended.

Also should be noted that I do not have a beta for this story; any mistakes are my own. Sorry!

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Instantly Caroline stood up, in spite of her protesting muscles.

"Muh-Mr. Wayne!" She gaped, stuttering. Of course this was his house. Of _course_. She met the man _once_ and now she showed up at his house all bloody and battered in the middle of the night—

He was going to think she was a lunatic.

Indeed it seemed quiet the opposite. After seeing the state she was in, bruises and cuts and bleeding lip, Bruce picked up the pace and entered the room. His dark brows were drawn tight with concern. "Are you alright?"

Caroline's eyes noticed that he was dressed in just jeans and a teeshirt. Last time he was in the suit that cost more than her car. This was Casual Bruce, one the public wouldn't get to see. One that her coworkers would _kill_ to see—

_Excuse me_, her critic spoke up, _but considering everything you went through tonight, if this is the reward, it was not worth it_!

... what a killjoy.

"I-I'm okay," Caroline mumbled, still embarrassed as hell. "I think..."

"I'll let you two catch up," Alfred said. In her shock, she had almost forgotten that the butler was present, but the man didn't ask any questions. Rather, with the same calm as before, he set down two cups of tea on the kitchen table, and left the room much more calmly than Bruce had entered it.

Once he reached her, Bruce motioned to Caroline. "Sit, please." She did and wrapped her hands around the teacup, letting it's heat work through her chilled hands. To her surprise Bruce picked up where Alfred had left off, brushing iodine across the cut above her brow. She almost blushed and willed herself not to, but recalling her reflection with the smeared mascara, well a blush might do her some good.

Bruce bit his lip as his eyes examined the rest of her face, from the rash on her neck and her split lip to the bruises forming on her arms."God, Caroline... what happened?"

Caroline took a deep breath and started to tell the story again, getting to where she had with Alfred before Bruce's arrival. The elderly gent came back into the room at that moment, and draped a large, warm towel over her shoulders and set what looked like clothes on the table beside her. She smiled appreciatively at him, before stilling when Bruce applied a bandage to her brow. His hands worked gently on her, and to be frank, he wasn't making it easier to think. And she _hated _admitting that; a man should not be effecting her motor skills, god damn it.

_But he's not just any man, is he? _

"...and I just figured, he'd drug all of us anyway," she mumbled now, sipping her tea, finally feeling the warmth start to settle inside her. "And I just... I just ran."

"What about the men in the van?" Bruce asked. His tone, while sincere, was missing an... air... that it had earlier. Earlier he had been nice, but had an air about him, one that said, _Why, yes, I do own everything in Gotham, and I damn well know it. How are you doing?_ But tonight he was concerned and serious. _So when it does count, Bruce can take things seriously_, her subconscious thought. _Hm. Good to know_.

Caroline shook her head, biting her lip but wincing instantly as her teeth pushed against the split, raw skin that she had pretty much forgotten about. "I-I don't know... I was worried they were awake and would follow me, and I just ran. _Again._"

Bruce nodded thoughtfully, moving to apply a dressing to her neck. She started at first, but tilted her head. Carefully, he scooped up her hair and moved it over her shoulder before he began to clean it.

"I saw your car," he announced, pulling her mind back from the place of silly swooning that began at the hair-touching. "The fire crews were there—the van and your car were torched."

Fantastic. Caroline's shoulders sagged. That was the family car, and now there was none. She couldn't afford a new one, for sure. At the same time, after tonight, there's a good chance she would never get behind a wheel ever again.

Bruce suddenly started, thinking of something, and looked over his shoulder at Alfred, standing back near the fridge. "Has anyone called the cops?"

"I'm sure Margaret did," Caroline interrupted. "She had her phone off the hook while they talked...and if they all followed me afterwards—no, I'm sure they called."

"Should we let them know you're safe?"

Caroline started to nod but then her face twisted up in pain. "Um... I'd rather not."

Obviously both men gave her a look.

Alfred's smile disappeared and he spoke first, with clear warning in his voice. "Are you suggesting the police may be looking for you as an accomplice?"

Her eyes widened with surprise at the suggestion, and it took a second to figure out, well, duh, what else would they think if she didn't want the cops to know where she was? But that wasn't what she was getting at, at all. Crap, how to word this? "No! No, God, no," she shook her head quickly, as if being quick could cancel the moment from ever happening at all. With a heaving sigh she leaned her elbows on the table, running her hands through her head. She felt a bump. When had she hit her head?

"... I haven't been in Gotham long," she muttered to the table, unable to look up. "But I know enough that every cop in this city is working for one mob, or another." She paused, thinking about her wording, and her voice came out quite. "Who's to say the cop that hears about my whereabouts isn't working for the same guys that broke in? Who's to say he won't come after me next? I'd rather..." she swallowed hard. "I'd rather leave it alone. Running away was stupid enough. I don't need a target on my back just for pissing some thugs off."

She thought about the thugs knowing where she worked. They would've seen the licence plate on her car. Every criminal has a 'hookup' at the DMV, or so the old saying went; they would know where she lives. And it's certainly not like her dad can protect himself. By running away, she could have set off a chain of events that could ruin everything she lived for. And to be frank, she didn't live for very much. Her fingers started to shake at the realization; and she was breaking down in front of two strangers. Lovely. _Pull it together, Caroline._

What she didn't see was the hardness that hit Bruce Wayne's face. His jaw tightened, the hand in his lap curling into a fist. This was exactly what he didn't want the people of Gotham to feel, and now he had a prime example at his kitchen table.

When she finally felt stable enough she sat up, quickly, smoothing her hair all the way back. The movement broke Bruce out of his deep thought; all he saw was the smile on her face now.

"And it wouldn't really be fair to you—considering I brought all this to your doorstep, Mr. Wayne."

"Bruce," he interrupted her. When her gaze met his he smiled reassuringly. "Bruce, please." Those warm eyes beneath those dark brows...

Oh dear. Caroline bit her lip again, and this time she ignored the pain of her split lip because she really didn't know what else to do.

"While it's nice that you two are getting so cozy," Alfred interrupted, and Caroline looked over and noticed he had just finished making two sandwiches—peanut butter and jam for Bruce, and a more substantial turkey bacon club for Caroline, who eyed it hungrily—"I think it'd be better for Miss Hames to change into some dry clothes, before she turns blue before our eyes." He finished with a smile. His teasing tone didn't hit Caroline, since she wasn't used to him yet, but Bruce narrowed his eyes at his guardian, who kept grinning.

Caroline barely remembered the clothes beside her. What a novel idea. Considering she was as bandaged up as she was going to get, she reached for them before attempting to stand. Crap, all of that running had really, really pulled her muscles. It's not that she wasn't healthy; she just didn't sprint regularly, and sitting after such rigorous movement had made her legs stiff.

Bruce stood up as well, and when he noticed her shaking, he put his hands on her shoulders to brace her. Rather than let her brush him off, he spoke before she could. "I'll show you the washroom."

"I'll get a fire started for her," Alfred suggested, smiling again.

Well, it's not like Caroline had any other ideas. Protesting seemed to not be an option.

After a slow walk—one that eventually ended in Caroline resting her hand in the crook of Bruce's arm— and a quick change, Caroline left the bathroom wearing an tee shirt that was slightly too large and sweatpants, holding her dirty wet clothes. It took a bit of scrubbing and soap but she managed to clean her face up to something normal, leaving her bandages in tact. Satisfied, she walked out of the bathroom when another harrowing thought crossed her mind—there was a strong possibility that these were Bruce Wayne's sweatpants.

Holy mother of god, Angie would kill her where she stood.

She was about to walk back to the kitchen, but heard soft music coming from the room to her right. Slowly her feet padded along the floor, down the hall until she was peeking into a sitting room. The men had moved in there and Bruce was just setting down the sandwiches on the coffee table as she entered. He glanced up at her entrance and motioned to the couch. "Please, sit," he said.

Alfred flicked a switch on a switchboard on the far side of the room, and the fireplace roared to life. Another switch turned on some music. A pretty high-tech, modern setup for such an old house... but really, was Caroline surprised? No.

The English gent walked up to Caroline with a smile, reaching for her clothes. "Relax and warm up, Miss Hames. I'll take care of these for you."

Caroline gaped and blushed, almost pulling her dirty clothes back from him. "Oh, no, Alfred you don't have to—"

But with a firm pull Alfred got them and looked pointedly at her. Suddenly Caroline felt like a little kid, cowering under an angry babysitter. Was this why only the good nannies are British? If it all it took to stop a child's tantrum was one of the looks that Alfred gave her, then it all made sense.

"Miss Hames, I insist." His voice was light even if his face wasn't. "After the night you had, you likely helped save those girls' lives. You deserve to put your feet up." Once finished he put on that same smile, the one that looked like he was enjoying some inside joke that only he knew... or some strange satisfaction on scaring people to get his way. And while she was flabbergasted, he pulled at her clothes, and she let them go willingly. Finally, he motioned to the couch. "Sit."

_Sir, yes, sir. _Caroline was speechless but eventually nodded and walked around the couch where Bruce was. Alfred left the room.

"He's right," Bruce said, drawing her gaze. "What you did was reckless, but it helped your coworkers."

Caroline looked away, still embarrassed about getting herself in this situation. "That was the idea..." she mumbled.

There was a slight pause, and Caroline's eyes drifted to her sandwich on the table. Sheesh, how hungry could she be? "I'll be right back," Bruce said, standing up and following Alfred after he left.

Caroline took this opportunity of solitude to wolf down her sandwich. Thankfully she was starting to fill up; this sandwich would do the trick... and damn, Alfred makes a good sandwich. While she waited she stared around the room, at the walls of books, the roaring fireplace. This house was so prestigious, in a setting she had no experience with, yet the warm colours were comfortable and inviting. This didn't feel like a museum, as she imagined a mansion may feel: this felt like a home. The ease that Alfred and Bruce treated her with certainly helped the image, but still, she could easily picture Bruce, as a child, running through the halls.

That was when she noticed the music. Maybe that was why she was so comfortable—she recognized the voice. Nat King Cole was singing softly over the speakers hidden discretely in the room. She leaned back against the couch, curling her knees up to her body, closing her eyes to the soothing violin and crooning voice.

Bruce walked back in at the same moment that Cole was singing about when he'd fall in love, and laughed gently, which took her out of the moment and she put her feet back on the ground (sitting like a proper adult and all). "I wasn't sure how to tell you this," he started, and Caroline looked up at the sound of his voice. He had a folder in his hand, a very familiar folder. Her eyes widened with recognition and her jaw dropped simultaneously. All Bruce did was smile sympathetically before handing it over. "You must have handed it to Fox along with his catalog."

Caroline accepted blindly, as she covered her eyes with her hand before groaning. "I can't believe I did that," she muttered, before setting the Utilities map in her lap. Un-freaking-believable.

Bruce shrugged and sat down once again, on the far side of the couch, leaning back and relaxing into the cushions. "Think of it this way; you weren't lying when you told those thugs you didn't have it."

"But still," she insisted, looking him in the eye. "If my boss found out about this—"

"I think your boss has bigger things to worry about than his employee making a human mistake," Bruce insisted right back at her, "such as the shotty security of his own building."

Caroline opened her mouth again but decided to stop. There was no point in arguing. She would take the paperwork in tomorrow, explain that she decided to be a decoy because she was sure everyone would be gassed this way, and go from there. Oh, fuck, there would be so much paperwork... but eventually she was too tired to think. She started slipping into that same dreamy state, the music her lullaby.

"Sorry about the music," Bruce said, after an awkward silence. "I haven't been here for eight years—Alfred's pretty much taken over everything and garnered it to his tastes."

Caroline's grin widened a bit and she shook her head. "No, I like it," she said softly. "My dad listens to this all the time..."

For a moment Bruce regarded her, leaning back, not touching his sandwich. Caroline did her best not to meet his gaze, staring into the fire, her eyes drooping with the dreamy music. At five this afternoon, she had imagined that she would have crawled into her car, drove home, had some dinner with her dad and been back in her old double-wide bed by now. And yet she was having an otherworldly experience by being here tonight. She should consider herself lucky that Alfred didn't call the cops on her, let alone for her. Or that Bruce didn't do the same thing.

Suddenly she giggled, so fast it almost sounded like a snort. Bruce raised a brow, quizzically, and Caroline felt a bit stupid for saying this, but she couldn't help it-at some point, exhaustion turns one delirious. "I just remembered," she started. "You were gone so long that Wayne Enterprises tried to ... declare you dead?"

Bruce nodded, humouring her for now, but not quite getting the joke. "They tried, so they could get my stocks. I don't blame them; I was gone for seven years. What they didn't realize was that I left everything to Alfred in my will," he explained.

A giggle came out of her lips again. "I remember reading that and thinking your butler must've killed you."

Now there was a grin on his face. The motive is cliche, but funny. "And now that you've met him?"

"Oh, he's wonderful. Not that I doubt Alfred's murderous abilities." She cleared her throat. "The longer I'm around him, the more I'm was sure he could kill you with a crumpet if he wanted to, all while singing God Save the Queen."

The idea was so stupid and preposterous, but she painted such a clear picture that Bruce laughed, openly, and this was so different than when they were in the garage earlier. Nothing stiff, nothing professional; just a good honest laugh. His shoulders relaxed, and he ran a hand through his hair.

Casual Bruce was a sight to marvel at, but it was still a lot to take in.

"So," she started, once they calmed down. "You've just been... away for those seven years?" He nodded. "Why did you come back?" Caroline asked again and her subconscious groaned. Why are you being so invasive?!

Now it was Bruce's turn to stare into the fire. "I needed to get away from Gotham for a while, get some perspective," he said. "And it's been... an experience." Suddenly he turned back to her. "So you're not from here."

Caroline shook her head. "No, no... I was born in L.A."

Bruce looked surprised. "You're far away from home."

"We travelled around a bit for my Dad's job," she said. "I mean, I've lived all over. And after... well, my mom died when I was sixteen," she said, trying to brush over the subject quickly, "and while Dad worked I was back in LA for a while, with my aunt, and after a few years, I moved here with him."

Bruce's smile faded at the mention of her mother and she was suddenly reminded that Bruce knew what that felt like. Both of his parents had been taken from him; she had read enough about him to know that. It seemed to be a fact that the newspapers brought that fact up in every story about him, regardless of relevancy.

But Bruce continued. "What does your dad do?"

Considering the air of the room, Caroline made herself more comfortable, pulling her legs up on her cushion. "He's an engineer. But he's retired now. He never really talks about his job." She leaned her head against her hands again, eyes drooping with the music. "Now he sits at home with his music..." Cole's voice was so dreamy... mix that with the dreamy violins... Almost otherworldly. It was easy to escape to a simpler time.

There was shift on the couch and she sensed him beside her. "C'mon," he suggested, as he stood before her. "You should go to bed."

Again his hospitality warmed her up. She smiled as sweetly as she could manage. "Thank you, Bruce... for letting me stay."

Bruce smiled warmly back. "Don't worry about it. What else am I going to do with all of these rooms?" That earned him another giggle, and he gestured to her again. "C'mon."

She grasped his hand and they slowly started to walk out of the room. Just as she was hoping that her guest room wasn't on the other side of the house, Bruce suddenly stopped walking, and moved closer to her. The gesture startled Caroline, so much that she side-stepped away and exclaimed, harsher than she needed to, "What?"

"You're not going to be able to do the stairs," Bruce said matter-of-factly, and he moved again, about to pick her up, but Caroline put her hands out.

"No, no no no," she protested. "Hold on. You can't."

Bruce looked up pointedly at her, with a look that was very similar to Alfreds. Probably got it from him—British discipline and all that.

But she was firm with him. "Bruce, you're kind of my boss. I don't think I can handle you carrying me bridal style around your house. Seriously." Maybe being honest would be easiest. "It's been a weird enough day already... not that you're weird." Oh god, shut up.

Bruce paused for a moment, considering her words, before turning around and kneeling before her. "How about a piggy-back then?" He looked over his shoulder. "Or are you too old for that?"

Considering Bruce had six years on her, Caroline had to laugh. "I can handle a piggy-back," she giggled, slowly wrapping her arms around his neck. He hooked his around her legs and stood up with tremendous ease, and thankfully they were moving before she could get entranced by _how hard _and _built _his back was pressed against her chest. Yikes, she was going to have to do something about her situation soon.

Soon they were on the stairs, walking up three flights before reaching the top floor. Caroline realized he was right—it would've taken ages to walk up all of those. Only, when they reached the top, he didn't put her down, but continued walking through the manor. Caroline blushed at this; he wasn't going to let up. And she knew enough that arguing with common sense in this house was a dumb move.

As he moved through a dark hallway, moonlight shining through the window, Caroline suddenly noticed a growing dark patch on his arm. "You've got a bruise coming in here," she pointed out sleepily.

She could almost feel the slightest bit of tension in his muscles. "Really?"

"Yeah," she murmured, almost tempted to touch it but kept her hands where they were. "A big one. What happened?" A thought popped into her head. "Spelunking?"

She could almost feel him grin. "Yeah, spelunking. Here we are."

There was one door along the hall that was opening, light pouring out. When he pushed it open it revealed a king-size bed in a wood-paneled room and a roaring fireplace. Man, if Caroline ever had anyone sleep over, the most she could offer was a futon. As Caroline stared at it all he knelt again, letting her feet land on the floor before he let her go. When he turned to her she smiled at him.

"Thanks again, Bruce."

He smiled. "Just get some sleep. We'll deal with everything else in the morning."

She nodded, and watched him walk out. With one more look to her, he closed the door behind him.

Yes, deal with it tomorrow. A splendid idea. All she knew how to do was sit and worry, but at this point she was so, so tired. And that bed looked so, so good.

_And in this house, we don't argue with Bruce or Alfred's sound judgement, right? _her critic asked, already knowing the answer.

Fucking right. And with that, Caroline fell face-first onto the bed, and had barely settled under the covers before she slipped into sleep.

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Bruce waited until he was down the hall of the opposite corner before resting. Once he was out of sight of Caroline's room, he leaned against the wall, taking a sharp breath and gripping his side all at once. His eyes pinched shut as he focused on the pain, trying to keep in control. His training had taught him to deal with the pain; he was used to this. Ra's al Ghul had given him deeper aches than this... it had simply been a while since he had to meditate. Mind over matter was harder than it sounded.

Alfred, having just left the upper-floor laundry room, saw his charge leaning against the wall. He approached quietly, assuming their guest was already in bed, and they got to the business he'd been waiting to hear about since Bruce came home that evening.

"Problem tonight?" Alfred asked quietly.

After one more deep breath, the exhale coming out with a huff, Bruce opened his eyes, staring at nothing. "They didn't like my antics at the police station so much."

"I can't imagine they _would_ enjoy masked men popping up with guns and demanding cooperation," Alfred said plainly.

Bruce gave him a look. "I didn't have a gun. I used a stapler."

"... very creative, sir."

"I wish I knew what the man in the mask had gassed them with," Bruce thought out loud. "A hallucinogen? A poison?" When Alfred didn't offer any suggestions, and he hadn't expected him to, then the billionaire sighed again, wincing as his muscles protested. "The last thing I want is criminals finding new ways to terrorize people."

"Maybe we should consider," Alfred suggested, "a breathing apparatus for the cowl, then?"

But Bruce interrupted, shaking his head. "We need to start moving faster," Bruce said, thinking about the girl down the hall. "Too many people are being ruled by fear in this city. We need to step up."

Alfred nodded. "Couldn't agree with you more, sir." Already he was thinking about the To-Do list to their secret 'project,' wondering what processes could be sped-up and what else needed to be handled. First of all, he would need to fetch some ice for any bruising. He began to turn away, off to the kitchen, but lingered for a moment. "Although," he paused, dipping his head to make stronger eye contact. "If you are suggesting Miss Hames let the fear get to her, I may be concerned that you've fallen on your head."

Bruce grinned and nodded with his butler. "No... she certainly did not."

"If you ever start looking for a sidekick, I think we should keep her on the list."

"She thinks you'd be better," Bruce smiled at the old man. "She's pretty sure you could easily kill someone with a scone."

Rather than confirm or deny this, Alfred continued down the hall back to the laundry room. Slowly, as he disappeared, the smile on Bruce's face faded away. He took another deep breath. If he wanted to be a symbol, something that could shake Gotham's people out of apathy, he needed to get to work.

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Birds sang. Sunshine streamed through her window. It was one of those mornings that, if forest animals came in and helped her get dressed while singing a Disney-esque tune, Caroline wouldn't have found it weird.

Caroline rolled over in the bed, hugging the pillow tightly and sighing fondly. This bed was _so _comfortable, _so _fluffy. The idea of getting out of the bed was too preposterous, too silly, that her mind dismissed it quite quickly.

Her critic, on the other hand...

_Hey, wake up,_ her critic said, mentally flicking her forehead. _Seriously, wake up. This isn't your bed, remember? _

That made her open her eyes.

Oh yeah, Wayne Manor.

... _WAYNE MANOR! _

Caroline sat up like a shot and all the blood rushed to her head too fast, causing an ache. She groaned, massaging her temple as she looked around. This was indeed the same room she had been left in last night, and in the light of day, it looked more glamorous, grander than she recalled. Everything was so old, but taken care of; this was old-world money at it's finest.

There was also a tray of steaming coffee, biscuits, bacon and eggs sitting on the table near the door. And that, to a working-girl's mind, is more valuable than the mahogany everything.

She jumped for it—a bit too quickly, as her head throbbed at the movement but she elected to ignore it—and sipped the coffee down, all while taking her surroundings in. Hanging behind the door to her room was her clothes, cleaning and pressed, ready to go. The rip that had been on her elbow was gone, carefully stitched up. Alfred had done all of this while she had slept?

Geez, she had to buy Alfred some flowers, or something. Or maybe a gift certificate to a spa; that man worked ridiculously hard.

As she sipped her coffee, she glanced over her clothes, and again at the Utilities map sitting on the desk by the food. Things had to get real again. Escaping like this was probably the most therapeutic thing she could've gone through, considering last night's events, but she had things to deal with. What on earth to tell the police? How far could she use Bruce's name to save herself, if at all?

She sighed and shook her head. No other way than to deal with it as it comes.

_Now, Bruce Wayne's pants,_ her inner critic thought. _How are we dealing with these? Return them, even though they've been worn, or steal them off for new car money? Angie would pay a fair price. _

Oh, Christ.

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TBC...

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Notes: things will start picking up soon in the next chapter, as Batman makes his grand entrance in Gotham and we hear a bit more of Caroline's backstory. I hope you liked it. **Comments/reviews** are always appreciated; either way, thank you for reading!


	4. Stop and Stare

A/N:: I _supremely _fucked up. I hate to admit I'm much more attentive to my AO3 account and had fixed the chapter cutoffs/timeline issue there, but forgot to do that here, too! Things TOTALLY JUMPED AROUND HERE AND **I AM SO SORRY FOR THE CONFUSION. **

Anyways, that being said, this should fix things. **This is the NEW chapter 4****. Chapter 5 will be repeat; Chapter 6 will be ****NEW**** as well. **I'm so sorry .

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_Chapter 4: Stop and Stare_

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Birds sang. Sunshine streamed through her window. It was one of those mornings that, if forest animals came in and helped her get dressed while singing a Disney-esque tune, Caroline wouldn't have found it weird.

She rolled over in the bed, hugging the pillow tightly and sighing fondly. This bed was _so _comfortable, _so _fluffy. The idea of getting out of the bed was too preposterous, too silly, that her mind dismissed it quite quickly. Getting up with the sun was overrated.

Her critic, on the other hand...

_Hey, wake up,_ her critic said, mentally flicking her forehead. _Seriously, wake up. This isn't your bed, remember? _

That made her open her eyes.

Oh yeah, Wayne Manor.

... _WAYNE MANOR! _

Caroline sat up like a shot and all the blood rushed to her head too fast, causing an ache. She groaned, massaging her temple as she looked around. This was indeed the same room she had been left in last night, and in the light of day, it looked more glamorous, grander than she recalled. Everything was so old, but taken care of; this was old-world money at its finest.

There was also a tray of steaming coffee, biscuits, bacon and eggs sitting on the table near the door. And that, to a working-girl's mind, is more valuable than the mahogany everything.

She jumped for it—a bit too quickly, as her head throbbed at the movement but she elected to ignore it—and sipped the coffee down, all while taking her surroundings in. Hanging behind the door to her room was her clothes, cleaning and pressed, ready to go. The rip that had been on her elbow was gone, carefully stitched up. Alfred had done all of this while she had slept?

Geez, she had to buy Alfred some flowers, or something. Or maybe a gift certificate to a spa; that man worked ridiculously hard.

As she sipped her coffee, she glanced over her clothes, and again at the Utilities map sitting on the desk by the food. Things had to get real again. Escaping like this was probably the most therapeutic thing she could've gone through, considering last night's events, but she had things to deal with. What on earth to tell the police? How far could she use Bruce's name to save herself, if at all?

She sighed and shook her head. No other way than to deal with it as it comes.

_Now, Bruce Wayne's pants,_ her inner critic thought. _How are we dealing with these? Return them, even though they've been worn, or steal them off for new car money? Angie would pay a fair price. _

Oh, Christ.

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Walking into the office was such a gong-show that she felt downright embarrassed. Considering the stunt she pulled last night, she knew that walking in unnoticed would be impossible, but the _fuss _everyone made was unbelievable. At first all the girls shrieked at the sight of her, hugging her madly, fawning over her cuts and bruises. Angie even _cried._

Brian was there, amongst the cops dusting the place, completely apologetic (even though most of them knew they had certain grounds for quitting, considering none of them would've been there if he hadn't dumped his work on all of them so he could go on his _date_) and Caroline wanted to let him know that she could care less how he acted because she couldn't quit her job right now, and no matter what he said to her, employed or fired, she would always think he sucked.

And then she was introduced to a sergeant of the crime division of the Gotham City Police Department: Jim Gordon.

He was a slight man, but a harder worker; that was easy enough to tell from just a glance. He was worn and weathered from years on the force, but his demeanor showed no signs of weakness or fatigue. Intimidating enough to talk to the lowest criminals, and scary enough for Caroline to fidget in her chair as he questioned her.

Jim pushed the glasses up his nose before flipping to a fresh page in his notepad. "And the ringleader of this group—what did he look like?'

Caroline shrugged. "I wish I could answer that; all I saw was the burlap mask."

Jim sighed, leaning back in his chair—Brian's chair, actually, as Jim was trying to interview her in a private space—and slapping his notepad against his hand a few times. "Even though I've never heard of a burlap-masked thief, that'll be hard to find in Gotham." Rather than let her respond, he looked through his notes and continued. "So where exactly did you spend the evening? We found your car out in the Palisades," he paused, looking up at her. "How did you get back into town when your purse was here at the office?"

This was the awkward bit that she didn't know how to answer.

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For lack of anything better to say—and to fulfill a desperate need to say something, _anything_—Caroline cleared her throat and noted, "I've never been in a Rolls before."

Bruce shook his paper after turning a page, trying to stop the crease. "You should see my other cars."

There was the slightest grin on Alfred's face, but Caroline missed it, as he was driving and she was in the back of the car with Bruce Wayne. He was back in his suit, yet every mannerism and inflection still radiated Casual Bruce that she met last night. Once she had dressed—and decidedly left Bruce's pants and clothes on her bed, after making it—she had gone back to the kitchen to find Bruce dressed to the nines and Alfred ready to go out. With some insistence, she was told she was getting a ride with them back into the city, back to her office, and they would be on their way to Wayne Tower.

For a moment, she stopped staring out the window—the windows in this car had _curtains. Like a horse-drawn Victorian carriage_—and picked at some spare lint on her skirt.

Bruce folded the paper up and set it aside. "There's nothing in the paper about your break-in, or the car chase," he said. He looked at her. "What's the plan?"

Caroline's eyes widened a tad. Has anything she's done in the last two days seemed to be according to some _plan_? What _exactly _was he expecting of her? Luckily for all of them, she _had _considered it this morning.

"I lie," she said simply. "Say I wandered the highway until I got picked up by a kind stranger willing to give me a lift into town."

Bruce didn't seem pleased by this idea. "You won't say you came to my house."

With a sigh, Caroline shrugged, feeling exasperated. "If this blows up and I have people tailing me, I don't want people coming after you, okay?"

"Caroline," and he reached his hand over to squeeze hers. The touch was unexpected, and her gaze went from the window to his fingers. Again, for a billionaire, they were surprisingly rough. "I don't want you to dig yourself a deeper hole just to keep me clean."

For a moment she didn't say anything. What was there to say? Bruce and Alfred had come to her rescue in so many ways in the last twelve hours. The least she owed them was their privacy... the same she wish she had now. No one needs a target on their back like she now had.

"I'll think of something." That was when she noticed they reached her block. She leaned forward, subsequently pulling her hand from Bruce's grasp and resting it on the front seat, to tell Alfred, "You can stop here, Alfred. It's okay."

After pulling to a stop, Alfred looked in the rear-view mirror. "Take care, Miss Hames."

She smiled at him. "You too, Alfred. Thanks for not being scared of the crazy person at the gate."

"Believe it or not, you're not the worst I've seen."

Caroline's smile turned to a smirk and she slid back, ready to get out. Once she opened the car door, it still took a second to gain the courage, but she eventually faced Bruce with a genuine smile.

"Thank you for everything, Mr. Wayne." Suddenly she smirked. "If you ever need Greystoke for anything-" her voice was far more jovial than it should be, but she was joking.

He laughed at that, the same open laugh from last night. "You're welcome, Carrie. Stay safe."

With that, she slid out of the car, closed the door, and watched the richest man in Gotham—and one of the nicest, most empathetic and humane, if she wanted to get detailed—drive away. Only a few seconds later the Rolls turned the corner and it was as if it never happened. As she stared after where she last saw the car, people walked in her view. Cars honked. Gotham moved on. The last twelve hours meant nothing to anyone else.

The city kept ticking—she wasn't even a cog. She wasn't even a screw that kept that cog in place. Just... space.

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"So you spent the night wandering the highway."

Caroline nodded.

Jim Gordon didn't seem convinced. He tapped his notepad a few times, absentmindedly, reviewing what she just told him. "You had a first-aid kit in your car—you took it with you after the crash. You walked along the highway and ducked in the ditch whenever you heard a car coming." If she hadn't had a better opinion of him, she was sure he had just rolled his eyes. "That's why none of my patrol cars spotted you. When you reached the first road-side turnout, you slipped into a bathroom and fixed yourself up."

Caroline nodded again, but winced when she dipped her head too far. The bruise on her temple had grown deep purple overnight, and was starting to hurt; she really needed to get to a hospital.

Slowly, Jim leaned forward, Brian's old chair creaking beneath the shift. He stared hard at her, through his glasses. He simply stared at her for a few seconds; with each passing moment, she was sure that she was keeping a straight face, but her heart was beating harder and harder in her ears.

"Miss Hames, you abandoned your car in the Palisades, the richest part of Gotham," he said slowly, in a quiet voice. "The only road-side turnout is twenty miles from the Kane Bridge."

... well, fuck. She should have looked at a map.

Now her heart was pounding, having been caught in her lie. Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment and she shifted in her chair, pulling her gaze away from him. "I-I... someone helped me out. And I don't want them to get in trouble."

Jim's gaze narrowed. "Why would they get in trouble?" His voice was light, honestly curious, not demanding.

Caroline bit her lip, trying to fight the tears of embarrassment—and ignore the growing fear filling her—looking skyward for a second before meeting his gaze. "The same way that I'm in trouble now!" She caught herself when her voice rose. "I don't need men with guns at my doorstep in the middle of the night, there because I ratted them out to the cops—especially when I can't trust the police to come save me."

The tiny office was quiet now, besides Caroline's sniffling. Jim simply regarded her.

"... I'm sorry you feel that way. As much as this may be hard to believe, there are people in Gotham that are trying to help." He flipped his notebook closed. "We just have a lot of competition."

Caroline didn't say anything. What was there to say?

"So... off the record. Who was it?"

There was a pause as she considered her options (few and all undesirable).

"... he... he just came back. He's been gone for a while."

"... has he been in the papers a lot these last few days?"

Caroline nodded.

"Well," Jim stood up. "I think your alibi checks out." That caught her attention and she looked up at him as he went to the door. She expected him to push more, to get more out of her. All the sergeant offered was a reassuring smile before noting, "You should really go to a hospital."

Numbly, she nodded. "I plan on it."

"Good." He turned back out to his men, who had finally finished fingerprinting everything. Caroline just sat there for a while, thinking about what happened. Her gut instinct, and all the horror stories she had heard over the years, told her that the cops were bought and paid for... but it didn't seem like Gordon was. Maybe she was too quick to judge him.

"Caroline?"

She sat up with a start when Angie stepped in. She smiled sympathetically. "We're all going to the hospital... to see Margaret. Do you want to come? Maybe get," she grimaced a bit when her eyes landed on the purpling bruise on Caroline's temple, "checked out?"

Honestly, after the day she's had, and the nausea that resided in her stomach after the nerve-wracking interrogation, she just wanted to be alone. But this meant a free ride to the hospital. Maybe she'd be cleaned up quickly and she could sneak out. "Sure."

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Except, when they got to Gotham General Hospital, Margaret wasn't there anymore. Whatever happened with the gas, it affected her brain. The nurses told them that Margaret's conditions became so intense she was even moved from the psychiatric ward to Arkham Asylum. Only family could visit her now.

In spite of this, and in spite of Caroline's protests, everyone from Greystoke Consulting stuck around, hovering by Caroline's bed while an emergency-room nurse properly patched her up. It was awkward as hell, as they've never been that close to begin with; maybe the severity of Margaret's situation had made them all clingy, aching for human contact, so they were all reluctant to leave. If that's what they needed to feel better, it was fine with her. For now,, she focused on the nurse's diagnosis. Thankfully, no concussion; she just looked like an eggplant, that's all. The nurse gave her a prescription for some painkillers and recommended plenty of rest the next few days.

It took about ten minutes, amidst glares and stares from his employees, for the manager of the company to finally speak up. Brian cleared his throat, as if to gain everyone's attention—as if they weren't waiting on him already—and ran a hand through his hair a few times. "So," his voice was tentative and not in the least bit confident. "Obviously, the cops want to go over the security footage from last night; and they aren't done with the office yet... So, um, you gals can take today off."

"With pay," Lauren said sternly, her eyes narrowed at Brian. Angie, sticking close to her work-buddy, had her best glare trained on their boss.

Brian had the gall to look taken back by the statement. "Of course with pay!"

"And Carrie gets overtime for last night," Angie also pointed out.

Caroline tried not to look surprised, especially while the nurse was putting stitches in her forehead—twitching her brows actually made it hurt a lot more. She didn't need people defending her, but this was a nice gesture. And since when was everyone on a 'Carrie'-name-basis with her? She was just the sometimes-supervisor; everyone called her Caroline.

And then she remembered that Bruce called her 'Carrie' before she left his car.

Of course, if the girls hadn't given him very intimidating stares, there was a good chance that Brian would've ignored the overtime altogether, but there was something to be said about strength in numbers (or even in a man's fear of the opposite sex). That was when he suggested taking them all out to a fancy dinner, too, at this fancy-as-hell restaurant in a hotel downtown. The girls seemed pleased with this, as now they could drink, on a Friday night, on the boss's dollar.

Which was all fine by Caroline—except she wasn't sure she had any fancy-as-hell clothing in her closet—so all she was worried about now was going home.

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Caroline finally opened the door to her apartment at 3:30, dropping her keys into the dish by the door. She kicked it shut behind her, about to hang her coat up when the smell of something burning hit her nostrils. The coat was soon forgotten and she quickly made her way to the kitchen.

Sitting at the small table by the window was an older man, bent over a plate of charbroiled grilled cheese. He stared up at her with the same green eyes she had, and smiled. "Hello, kiddo."

Caroline smiled warily. "Hi Daddy."

Mr. Edward Hames, a.k.a. Dad, looked how every almost-sixty-year-old father should: whatever scraps of hair he had left were grey, sometimes flying away from his head. When he grinned it was as if he had a secret joke and wanted to share it with anyone would listen. At the moment he looked ready for bed, in his pajamas and bathrobe, but Caroline knew he hadn't gotten out of those clothes all day.

After kissing him on the forehead she stared down at his sandwich. "Did you make that?"

He nodded. "Yes... a bit burnt, though."

"You don't have to eat it, you know."

"I don't want to waste."

Without asking she picked up his plate and made her way to the sink, grabbing a forgotten spoon from the countertop and scrapping away the black from the toast into the sink. This helped somewhat; at least he wasn't eating charcoal now.

"How was work?"

Caroline was glad he couldn't see her face at the moment; it fell when he asked that. "Um, work is fine. How was your day?"

"Well, the mailman wasn't the same as before," the disappointment was clear in his voice. "And your mother took forever in the bathroom this morning."

Caroline paused and turned to her father. Taking a calming breath, she waited until his eyes met hers. "Mom's not here anymore," she spoke softly. "Remember, Daddy?"

Confusion crossed the old man's face for a moment; recognition hit his eyes, and he bit his lips before nodding. "Right," he chuckled quietly. "Right. Silly me."

His daughter watched him for a second before walking up and setting his sandwich down. "Here, eat up," she told him, rubbing his back, but suddenly his hand caught her wrist.

"Carrie, what happened to you? Your face!"

Crap, she was worried about when he would notice that. She pulled her hand from his grip and put it on his shoulder, squeezing, trying to be comforting. "I got into a car accident this morning."

Mr. Hames frowned. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I'm telling you know, Dad," she tried to be patient. "I'm fine, everyone's fine, it was the other guy's fault—" at least that wasn't a lie "—but the car's wrecked. We'll have to cab it to your appointment on Tuesday. Okay?"

Slowly Mr. Hames twisted in his chair, reaching up and cupping his daughter's face. "I could care less about the car, sweetheart—I just want you safe."

Her dad only called her sweetheart when he really remembered what was happening. This made her smile and she held his hands against her face. "I've been to the hospital—it looks worse than it is. I'll be fine."

"Good. Have you eaten?"

With a final pat on his hand, she pulled away and started to make her own sandwich, something simple just to have something in her stomach. She really hadn't eaten since Alfred's wonderful breakfast that morning. By comparison, anything in her fridge was boring and tasteless, but she'd have to make due.

While she prepared it, she decided to tell her dad about her news. "My boss gave us the day off work," she said. "And Friday night he's taking everyone for dinner."

"Did he piss someone off?"

Caroline laughed at his intuitiveness. "Yes, yes he did."

Her dad chuckled. "At least he knows the basics of the workplace." He waited for her to look at him before he elaborated. "Happy girls make for a happy environment anywhere in life."

She frowned, only half-heartedly, at him. "Dad, that's kind of sexist... but mostly true." Finally satisfied with her sandwich—and realizing it was as good as it was going to get—she came over to the table. "I'll remind you again tomorrow, and I'll leave a note before I go. Sound good?"

After a moment of thought Mr. Hames nodded. "That wouldn't be a bad idea."

She smiled and they began to eat in peaceful quiet. Unfortunately her mind wandered to everything else that happened, and what could destroy the peace of her home. Her gaze wandered over to the door, at the locks. Maybe she could buy some more—those kind with the steel bars that held the whole door back-

Her dad laughed for a moment. "You should take your mom out with you; she could use a night out! God knows she tells me how much I don't spoil her," he laughed at himself again.

After a moment of silence Caroline doubled back and made her dad look at her again. "Dad. Mom died eight years ago. Remember?"

The same action repeated itself; confusion, recognition, acceptance. "Oh, yes... right." And he went back to his sandwich.

Coldness swelled in her stomach. How on earth could she keep this safe?

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The cops had actually cleaned up some of the debris from the break-in; the smashed glass was gone. Probably taken away for fingerprinting, but nonetheless, at least the employees wouldn't have to deal with that.

A full night's sleep helped do wonders for Caroline. She was almost feeling like her old self; she looked like utter crap still, but she felt better. For the second time ever, when she walked in, everyone greeted her enthusiastically. They asked how she was, what she did with her afternoon off, if she was excited for the dinner—things they never asked her before. As far as she could tell, it wasn't an act, put on as a way to thank her for sacrificing herself to keep them safe. Every gesture seemed sincere. Never the less, it bugged her out. Even Brian was being decent and attentive.

Caroline had only settled in her cubicle when Lauren came in, waving _The Gotham Post _around. Her eyes narrowed in on her best friend Angie before she spoke. "Tell me you saw this today."

Angie only tilted her head and frowned. "Sorry to disappoint?"

If anything, Lauren seemed more excited that she was the one the break the news. With a speed Caroline had never seen from her, she hustled to Angie's cubicle and slapped the paper onto her desk. "Crime boss Falcone got caught!"

There were a few gasps and tsks of disbelief in the room, yet everyone gathered to Angie's desk to read the story. Caroline peered around the wall and caught sight of the cover; a man strung up on a spot light? _Bat Serves Up Crime Boss_?

"What Bat?" Caroline was the first to ask.

Lauren brought her excitement her way. "This guy—or a creature, some of the thugs say—he shows up at the docs where the drug deal is going down, _kicks _the _shit _out of every one of them, and ties Falcone up! For once, the cops have a case against him because he was there! At the _scene_!"

Caroline understood the excitement—Falcone was a name she'd heard around, even when she had been avoiding Gotham's scum, and to have him captured was... unbelievable. She didn't want to believe it, just so she could avoid the disappointment they'd all feel a week from now when the charges are dropped and Falcone walks away scot-free. This city couldn't change overnight.

Brian stepped from his office, hovering over Lauren's shoulder. "So this guy _was _a bat or he's dressed up like one?"

"I'm going for dressed up," Lauren admitted. "Those thugs could be hopped up on the drugs Maroni deals—I doubt they saw an actual "Bat Man.""

Caroline simply raised her brows, hummed with disbelief and slid back into her desk. Whoever caught the thugs, it could all be a ruse. The idea was nice, and maybe, just maybe, there could be some hope now. But it seemed unlikely. Maybe she was too cynical.

But it was hard to believe in heroes.

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Everybody else was excited about going to dinner. Once Brian told them the name of the restaurant, the afternoon went to waste while everyone googled the location and talked clothes.

All Caroline could do was get more anxious. The way everyone was talking, she _knew _for a _fact _that she didn't have anything fancy enough in her wardrobe. When she got home she saw the same tops, the same camisoles and sweaters and pants that she was familiar with. Some clothes had a decent sheen to it—there was a purple halter blouse that was nice—but considering her road rash was healing rather grotesquely, she'd rather keep that covered while people attempted to eat their food.

That was when her dad suggested she raid her mother's closet. He tossed it out there, like it wasn't a big deal, and women trade clothes between each other all the time.

Caroline stared at the back of his head while he watched television, silently praying for him to realize what he'd suggested. But there was no reaction, none other than chuckling at a sitcom on the screen before him. So with a hard swallow, she crossed the apartment, into her Dad's room, and moved to the closet in the corner, the one she had avoided for the last five years.

Mom had been a homemaker, but whenever Dad was home from one contract or another, he took her out dressed to the nines. The clothes were horribly familiar—as Caroline slid each garment aside, she remembered the last time she saw Mom wearing it. Those last few days were burned into her memory. Every last detail, as if there was something that could've changed to save her. But this was too much to handle before going out with co-workers; if she started now, she'd be a mopey mess for the rest of the night. So she pulled out the first black skirt she saw and a shiny charcoal top. It was like something off of _Mad Men_, lace all over, high collar with a tie to the side of her neck, and lace sleeves. With a red cami from her own closet, she may just fit in.

God, she hated skirts.

And she was so, so wrong.

It was as if every fashion-model-business-woman from Wayne Tower was at the hotel restaurant. Sure, unlike her visit to said tower the other day, her clothing was a bit more acceptable and at the same standard as theirs, but with the rash, her split lip and black-and-blue skin, she found herself hanging her head once again as she walked through the lobby, her flats silent in comparison to every other woman's high heels.

This was supposed to be a fun night out, damn it.

And she still hated skirts. They made it feel weird to sit at the table with everyone.

"Angie, tell Carrie what you told me."

Caroline looked up at the mention of her name, and then across the table. Angie was in the middle of a bite of very expensive salmon when she was asked to recount her tale, so it only took a second. "Okay, so you know the whole Falcone thing that happened last night? With the "batman"?" she really used air-quotes.

Caroline frowned but let her keep going, humouring her.

Angie picked up her wine and swirled the glass, giving an air of pompous pretentious... whatever-ness. The second she sat down in this restaurant, she was being a completely different person, laughing delicately and flourishing her hands and all that; while Caroline's instinct wanted to label her a fake, her critic offered something a bit more empathetic: maybe Angie was just as nervous in this environment as Caroline was. So, for that, Caroline made no more remark of it for the night.

But Angie was getting dangerously close to spilling her wine of her glass, the way she was swirling it.

"With all the stuff that the Batman left behind at the docks—that's where the whole thing happened," she paused to elaborate, "the authorities _actually _have enough to lock him away! For good!"

Lauren, a born-and-raised Gothamite, lifted her glass without even looking and clinked it with Angie.

Caroline couldn't help grimacing. "Really, though? I'm sorry to be doubtful, but," she paused and shook her head. "I've only been back a few years, but he's not the first mob boss I've seen get set free."

"Depends on who the attorneys are," Brian finally spoke. He was refilling his glass of wine, pausing to tilt the bottle her way for the third time that night. He was obviously getting sloshed if he couldn't remember the first two times that Caroline told him that alcohol and her painkillers won't mix. "Either way—this Bat guy."

Lauren laughed, still not looking up from her food. "You're liking that guy."

Caroline smirked at Brian flushing with embarrassment. "It's just nice to see something actually getting done around here, you know?" He shrugged, trying to get everyone off his back, before gesturing to Caroline. "It's like Carrie's said—everybody gets off easy in one way or another, and it's because the cops or the judges or the politicians are paid off. They won't act because they've got cash in their pocket. So this guy swoops in, _literally_, and does what everyone else won't dare to do?"

Caroline sighed. "This guy is crazy. Bat-crap crazy. Literally _and _figuratively. I mean, he's going to get killed out there, really soon." She had to state the obvious because it was on her mind constantly. Who was this guy friends with? What about his family? They had to be worried sick about his antics.

Lauren finally looked up, not at Caroline, but she glared at Brian. "You're suggesting that Commissioner Lobe could care less about cleaning Gotham up."

Brian stopped her, holding a finger up. "I'm suggesting that he wants to do good, but what good is a police force of hundreds when they're puppets of the mob? An army isn't useful if it's mutinous. Lobe's probably more concerned about one of his own killing him off."

Lauren leaned forward, and was starting to argue the deeper politics of the Gotham justice system, but Caroline found it hard to focus because her comment had been brushed off. This wasn't her argument; like she said, Lauren and Angie and Brian were all born and raised here. They knew the tone of Gotham and what it needed. All she could think about was the Batman, not adding much to the conversation. Someone trying to clean up the city, without the rules, but by doing what's right...

... maybe Jim Gordon was Batman.

Something familiar caught her attention as she was imagining Jim Gordon fighting crime; out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a man, in a crisp suit, white-blonde hair, and smarmy smile. Mr. Earle! She didn't want to perk up with recognition, but it happened, and Angie noticed easily-unfortunately she tilted her head and got into Caroline's line of vision.

"What's up?"

Caroline paused, forgetting she was facing her coworkers while looking over them all. "Oh, um—the CEO of Wayne Enterprises. I met him the other day." She nodded in Earle's direction, and of course the whole table twisted and turned to stare at him. Caroline hung her head with embarrassment until everyone went back to normal.

Earle had some guests with him; it was impossible to tell if this was a business dinner or a social one, filled with heiresses and the like. The trophy wives of CFO's and stockholders made the clarification hard. The party began to sit, everyone looking glamorous, and Earle was staring around the room—Caroline shifted in her seat to make sure his view of her was blocked by Angie's head—as if he was waiting for someone.

As interesting as it was to see what a CEO does in his spare time, the fact that it was Earle didn't elate her mood. She couldn't help remembering his fake laugh and that smirk, or his attitude regarding the perfectly nice Mr. Fox, so she pulled her eyes back to her food. Following her dad's advice, she ordered one of the most expensive things on the menu just to spite Brian a little bit, and that meant she had an enormous shank of lamb on her plate that, while delicious, was way too much for one sitting. She wondered if a place this nice had doggy bags.

A burst of bright colour amongst the darkness amongst the restaurant caught her attention again. Yikes, that was a short skirt—it was short on both of the women walking on either side of—

"Hoooooooly," Caroline managed to keep her cursing out of it and her voice low but once again, she had everyone's attention. Before they could ask, she said, "Bruce Wayne."

Lauren and Angie gasped like morons and spun instantly so they could look at their future husband. Without the husband angle, Brian was looking over as well. Caroline stared but for not the same reasons as everyone else.

He walked with one woman on each arm, hand dangerously low on their hips as he guided them to Earle's table. He greeted the CEO with a grin that was equal parts cocky and ignorant to everything else around him but himself. He acted like he owned the place.

This was... weird.

While the conversation at their own table became less interesting, as everyone kept looking over at the high-profile table too often to keep the chatter going, Caroline felt grosser the longer she looked at him. After the other night she would've described Bruce Wayne as honest, easy going, a good listener, caring, and that was only after spending a few hours with him. Even when he had put on the $5000 suit, he was still nice and genuine. That was the impression he left.

Now, that air he had when she met him in the R&D department was back, and it was worse. Every smile was smarmy, he brushed off conversation, he was bored and his eyes wandered, he'd grin like a horny teenager at his two socialite rent-a-girlfriends... who stood from the table and walked to the decorative pool. They were starting to take their shoes off.

"... the hell are they doing?" Lauren whispered, obviously staring in the same direction Caroline was.

To everyone's surprise, the two women slipped into the water, ducking their heads in and giggling. Angie's jaw dropped and her hand reached for her phone—if anyone was about to put out a Twit-pic of hot Gotham gossip, it was Angie. Caroline had a hard time hiding her sneer over the inappropriate behavior.

Right on cue, someone who appeared to be hotel staff came up to Earle's table, right beside Bruce. Once informed, he had the gall to look surprised, even at the girls in the pool. Suddenly a cheque book came out.

"You've _got _to be kidding me," Angie muttered.

With a (probably very enormous) cheque freshly shoved into the maitre de's pocket, Bruce picked up his drink and joined his lady friends at the pool—nay, _in _the pool.

Well, he acted like he owned the place—now he did.

The Bruce that liked peanut butter sandwiches—the Bruce who liked the old music and wore sweatpants and carried her to her room—he was gone. Maybe he never existed. Who was the real Bruce Wayne?

Feeling duped and manipulated and just all over gross—which, to be fair, may be caused by the painkillers because they can cause naseau—Caroline was ready to leave.

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"No, no, I won't hear it," Angie insisted as Caroline tried to step up to yet another cab, only for Angie to grasp her arm and pull her back towards the hotel entrance. She then passed her keys to the valet. "I'll drive you home. I insist."

"Yeah, I've noticed," Caroline said, but she gave her a smile and thanked her. After Brian picked up the tab, everyone began going their separate ways. Lauren had a connection at a local bar that could get her in ahead of the line; she was dragging a few coworkers to that. Brian went home. Caroline was obviously feeling like crap and just wanted her own bed, but apparently Angie wasn't up for a night out, either.

Caroline rocked back and forth on her heels as she hugged herself, arms aching slightly at the pull. Turned out the lace of her shirt rubbed harshly against her road-rash, so she had to put the dressings on before wearing the dress. The white gauze was obvious through her sleeves if you looked enough, but it did a good enough job.

"I love that shirt," Angie told her, pulling her from her thoughts.

Caroline smiled at the compliment. "It was my mothers. So's the skirt. And the camisole." Caroline shrugged and her smile fell. "Sheesh, if it weren't for mom, I'd only be out in my underwear."

Angie laughed at that before reaching out and lightly touching the bow. "It's suits you."

"I've been uncomfortable since we've sat down. I hate skirts."

"I hate stuffy restaurants."

After a cautionary stare, both girls held up their hands and gently high-fived.

Angie rolled her eyes. "I get that he wanted to spoil us good and well considering the fuck-up, but I told him the last place we should be is a shallow restaurant." She grimaced, apologetically, before looking her way. "I can't imagine you hated sitting in there just because of the skirt."

Caroline's shoulders sagged. "Being black-and-blue doesn't help."

"It'll fade eventually—and they did a wonderful stitch job." When Caroline raised her brow curiously, Angie shrugged. "My mom's a nurse. Best stitches in the city. Oh, there they are—oh, geeze, they gave them _bathrobes?_"

Caroline turned to stare as a roaring noise filled the front entrance. A gorgeous charcoal Lamborghini pulled up, and the two 'pool' girls were stepping in, no longer in their dresses but white, fluffy hotel robes. Bruce was talking with some woman in a black dress; she was familiar, too, though Caroline couldn't keep track in a place like this. Too many of Gotham's famous—whether notable or infamous—were here.

The gross feeling came back and Caroline tried to pull her eyes away, but couldn't. "Well, he owns the place now—they're _his _bathrobes anyway."

Angie scoffed in reply.

But Caroline couldn't take her eyes off the soaked billionaire. Something was slipping—with this woman, he wasn't acting overconfident and unbearable. He looked... sad. Unfortunately, instead of being hopeful that this was the Bruce she knew, now she had no idea who was who. She really just wanted to go home.

The woman turned and walked back inside; Bruce lingered on her retreating back before turning towards the car. He must've felt her gaze because he met it head-on. Caroline almost jumped, but her eyes just opened a bit wider, and stared at him. Wet suit, random women, new hotel owner... he didn't look too happy with himself.

For a moment he was caught looking at her, and there it was—embarrassment.

And then he ducked his head and went to his car.

With a quick glance forward, she saw that Angie hadn't noticed the exchange. Her valet was coming up with her car and she was fiddling in her purse for a tip. So she cast him one last glance, even as they pulled away, because she wouldn't give Bruce Wayne much more thought for the next six months.

No, she would get drawn back into her mundane life. She would still come into work and file her papers and try not to think about what could have been in her future. It's back to the daily struggle of worrying about her dad, hating herself for being unable to afford him the proper care, being completely frightened that she would come home one day to find him hurt, harmed, worse than before. But all she could do was keep calm and carry on.

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TBC

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	5. Duck and Cover

A/N: As mentioned in the last chapter, **I severely screwed up timeline/posting. ****Chapter 4 is ALL NEW:**** go read it! There are major plotpoints.** This chapter is the old Chapter 4/the new Chapter 5. Sorry for all the confusion! :(

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Chapter 5: Duck and Cover

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Caroline's suspicions weren't far off—she really didn't think about Bruce Wayne much at all. Any fond memory she had of that night she stayed at Wayne Manor was wiped away with Bruce's look of shame outside the hotel after the dinner with her coworkers.

Only a blip in her day, and she'd be back to the mind-numbing.

Oh, and of course, she thought about him after that _thing_ happened, but only because Wayne Manor was on page eight of the same edition of the Gotham Times.

That _thing _was an entirely strange occurrence that haunted her more than she wanted to admit. The front-page story version was that bio-terrorists contaminated the drinking water with drugs that were released along the city's water mains. The actual event was much more dramatic and happened when she was up late, reading up on her father's condition (which she only ever did after he'd gone to sleep), only to pause when she heard explosions in the distance, coming closer and closer. When she stuck her head out her apartment window she saw the haze over the Narrows. Every explosion-which was actually, as assured by the Gotham Times, not an explosion, but the pressure in the mains causing the manhole covers to blow straight into the air-sounded like a _tank _had gone off. It was horrifying and scared the crap out of her. (Not to mention, her dad woke up in a panic and it took forever to help him calm down).

The whole thing only lasted a minute but ended with a bang. The last explosion, which freaked her out the most, was an enormous crash of grinding metal. Again, the Gotham Times explained that part of the subway system had collapsed. She had figured out that much on her own the next morning when she tried to get to work; the subway was completely shut down, many of the roads near the downtown core were closed by police, and she had to fight half a dozen people for a cab.

So when Caroline finally got to work, and watched the news and read the copies of the Gotham Times that her coworkers brought in, everything clicked. Who else would break into a consulting firm to steal maps of the city's utility lines, other than bio-terrorists?

The direct connection to the craziest event Gotham has seen in years didn't help Caroline sleep for a week.

Anyways, that crazy event happened, and after reading all about it on the front page, Caroline soon found out that Bruce Wayne was pushed to page eight. She had flipped through the paper, already feeling sick and then _his _headline practically slapped her in the face.

_'DRUNKEN BILLIONAIRE BURNS DOWN HOME.'_

The eve of his 30th birthday, the Prince of Gotham apparently got piss drunk, insulted all his guests, and burnt the manor down in a drunken rage. Thankfully, no one was hurt, but nonetheless, this hit a little too close to home, even _if _Caroline had only seen it one time. As much as she decided that she wouldn't think about him anymore (purely out of spite for feeling duped) her heart ached.

Maybe Gotham was too much for him. He was gone for seven years, _to gain some perspective_, he said. Maybe when he came back, he couldn't handle the pressure. As the papers wrote, he was Gotham's Prince, he was Gotham royalty and everyone was watching his every move—

-maybe it broke him.

Either way, she couldn't stand looking at the picture of the manor burned down to its foundation. Only a few days before, she had been in those same halls, felt warmth in those rooms and the comfort from strangers, and now all that grand history and family heritage was ash and rubble.

_You only knew him for mere hours, Carrie,_ her inner critic reminded her. _How can you say you really know him?_

She couldn't. So she flipped the page and moved on with her life.

Work _did _get back into the swing of things, and it was mundane and boring. Caroline was stuck filling paperwork—insurance and police reports and such—and discovered she may not be able to afford a new car for a while, so she'd have to grin and bear the subway.

In spite of all the initial hassle, things _had _become remotely better. Brian promoted her as his first-in-command, shortly after the break in, but he was very vague about it. Maybe he was still worried that Caroline would find a way to sue him; she wasn't about to let on that she didn't have money for a lawyer, so she simply accepted the promotion (and its slight pay raise) and went about her business. Her coworkers accepted the shifting of positions easily; there wasn't any backlash and if anything, they spoke more openly with her. The team bonded well after all that—even if their bonding came about from hating Brian as a group.

So no more Bruce Wayne. She was better off.

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_Six Months Later..._

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In all honesty, Brian brought it on himself some days.

Caroline stared at his empty office, glaring at the very comfortable leather chair that sat unoccupied. When she arrived that morning, there had been two presents to greet her workday: a pile of paperwork and a voicemail from Brian. He said he'd be out of the office for the day. He didn't elaborate, or even give a semi-believable excuse—doctor's appointment, meeting his banker, he's hungover from yesterday—he just said, in a rushed tone, that he wasn't coming in. Why would he even bother calling? Did he think the whole office worried about him?

If only he knew.

As she said, Brian brought it on himself some days. And Caroline tried to set a good example, but sometimes, a little collective rage around the office was good for dealing with stress.

"Hey!"

Caroline looked away from the chair and up to Angie, who was leaning on the wall separating their work spaces.

She smiled at her boss. "So I'm buying my brother's car off him—he wants money for his Europe trip—which means I don't need two cars," she said, her tone being suggestive. "

Caroline blinked with surprise. "So you're selling yours?"

Angie's smile turned to a smirk. "I know you've been looking for a while—I'll sell you my old one for cheap."

Caroline's shoulders sagged with relief. She couldn't hide how much of a life saver this would be. "Seriously? You don't have to do that—" Well, she still had to put in the effort to refuse the charity.

"Yes, seriously," Angie interrupted her, raising her hand and cutting her off. "Take it."

Caroline smiled weakly at her. "You have no idea how much that would help." Taking her dad on the subway or even in a cab, was getting more difficult with each passing week. The panic attacks get worse each time, and she was starting to suspect that each attack was causing his dementia to progress. But even with a pay raise, she hadn't had enough money to get anything decent.

Until Angie named her price.

Angie brushed off Caroline's awe at the surprisingly affordable amount. "Caroline. I'm getting my brothers car for a steal, and I've only got one parking stall at my condo. Besides," and she smiled at her, hushing her voice a bit, "you trashed your car to save our asses. Really, I should just be _giving_ it to you."

Caroline quirked her brow before Angie cut her off. "But I know you well enough that you wouldn't accept it for free. You've got this annoying pride thing that we all have to work around," she joked.

Unable to deny it, Caroline just shrugged. "It's true. I'm difficult like that."

"Anyway, enough money talk," Angie turned away for a moment, grabbing something off her desk before turning back. "Have you seen the latest?"

She presented Caroline with the headline of today's Gotham Times-_BATMAN STRIKES AGAIN- _and Caroline had to nod politely because on top of everything else that's happened in the last six months, then there was this crazy _Batman _business.

Once it was revealed that the Batman stopped the bio-terrorists, and effectively saved the city from chaos, everyone seemed to lose their minds. Angie in particular went _nuts _and started keeping a scrapbook of newspaper clippings of everything Batman related. There were never pictures of him; some editorial cartoonists did their best to render the masked vigilante, but he always came out looking like an animal hybrid. There was one on Angie's copy of the paper today and Caroline made a face at it.

"Well, if his goal was to scare criminals, he's on the right track," Caroline grimaced. It was absolutely _terrifying_. 

Angie laughed. "He chased some car thieves back to their chop shop and caught the whole operation red handed. Batman is the best thing to _happen _to this city."

Caroline smiled and nodded with her, hoping to get back to her paperwork and avoid this conversation with Angie. There were some things you just did not do, and getting into a flame war with an obvious fangirl was one of them. Caroline still though that the Batman was a lunatic, but had a hard time hating him completely. The streets of Gotham were cleaned of scum and scoundrels, the 'garbage' tied up on the curb for pickup by Gotham City PD. Dozens, if not yet hundreds of criminals were behind bars. The cops didn't put them there. A guy with a cape did.

Whatever. The "Batman" could do whatever he damn well pleased, as long as it didn't interfere with her life.

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"I'm buying a car from a girl at work," she announced to her dad after dinner that evening.

He looked up from the nightly news with interest. "Oh? What kind?"

"A 1990-something Honda Civic," she elaborated before taking a seat at the desk in the living room. After some rummaging, she pulled out her cheque book and statements from last month. Her eyes trailed over the numbers as she spoke. "And before you ask, she's a fine driver and the car is good enough, especially for the price we're getting it for."

Her dad chuckled, turning back to the television. "I still want to look at it. I'm an engineer, dear-I can't not look at it."

Caroline sighed patiently and only smirked a tad. "I _know_, Dad." The numbers were all in place; she could just write Angie a cheque tomorrow and be done with it. She started writing some notes about what to do when she went to the bank in the morning.

The newscast filled the silence until her dad spoke again.

"My word, look at him. Caroline, you've been reading about this _bat_, haven't you?"

Caroline glanced over at the television. The news channel was running footage captured by a news chopper from a car chase last night. That now completely familiar black tank barreled down the street, assisting in a car chase before t-boning the runaway van. Moments later the dark figure-the one she had seen an animal-hybrid rendering of in Angie's paper-swooped in, dramatically tore the car apart and knocked the criminals unconcious, before stealing away into the night when the cops stepped in. The broadcaster then announced that eighteen men were arrested in a chop-shop/drug ring operation before moving on to the weather.

The fact that a _black tank _was _familiar _was ridiculous enough.

Caroline had a hard time believing stuff like this happened in real life; it was all too much like an action movie. It also reminded her too much of her experiences six months ago, and made it too real. Involuntarily, she shivered and looked back to her books without comment.

Ed sighed happily, admiring the footage. "It's nice to have some real life heroes. You know," she heard him shift on the couch, probably turning towards her, "We tried once. Making real heroes. Superheroes. Heroes who could fly." There was a whimsical air in his voice, a grin on his mouth. He seemed childlike, lost in dreams. Until suddenly his expression fell, and his voice lost some of the enthusiasm it once had. "At least, I tried to."

Wow. That officially was the weirdest thing he has ever said to her. Amusing as hell, but weird.

Caroline had a hard time not making a face at that, only managing to pull a tight smile and regarded her dad. "Sounds... Cool, Dad."

Ed frowned at her expression, and scoffed. "You don't believe me. I've got it all in my briefcase-but your mother tucked that away. Don't want you looking at it until you turn 18, sweetheart."

The tight smile shifted, now worrying her lips between her teeth, the familiar ache filling her chest. Sometimes she wondered if it was really better to let him know, remind him of the now, because it was getting harder and harder to muster the courage to disappoint him.

"I'm 23, Daddy."

The room was silent besides the news broadcast.

Then, after a moment, Ed cleared his throat. "Sure. Right."

Caroline simply hunched over her papers, focusing on the numbers instead of letting the tears well up in her eyes. Some things may never change

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Some things may never change, but others get more and more peculiar.

Caroline arrived at work at the usual time the next morning, but found the door to the office still locked. So Brian wasn't in again. She grumbled as she fished her keys from her pocket, let herself in, and settled at her desk. This time around she had no messages. There were no notes, no notices, nothing misplaced in Brian's office. She assumed he was running late, but he never showed up.

Suddenly she felt bad for getting annoyed by the extra paperwork. Where the heck was Brian? People disappear in this city all the time—god, she hoped he wouldn't become one of them. No matter how much she disliked him, she couldn't wish death on another person. Her stomach twisted in knots and she tried to work, but focusing was impossible.

When Angie came, she had the proper paperwork for transferring ownership of the car. Caroline gave her the bank daft she got that morning and the girls shook on it, like old-timey oil tycoons. Finally, a way to get around town peacefully.

As long as there aren't any black tanks around.

Halfway through the day, the courier boy came by with the regular packages, including one Caroline had to sign for. She was about to do it without a second thought until she saw the logo on the large envelope. "Wayne Enterprises?" she blurted out before she could stop.

The courier shrugged. "Just doin' my job, ma'am."

Of course he was. Caroline apologized and signed, letting him go on his way before she opened the package. There was another report—something more for the Wayne Foundation than W.E.—and along with the standard-issue signed contract detailing the project, there was a hand-written note from Lucius Fox.

_Very pleased with the work last time. Your employees really go the extra mile. – Fox_

Caroline wasn't sure to laugh at the horrible pun or feel flattered. She settled on muttering 'har har' to herself and settled down to work.

A typical day. Nothing wrong. The sun began to set and her coworkers began to leave one by one, checking with her if there was anything they could do, but Caroline sent them on their way. Nothing was urgent and they were all making good time—things could be worse.

Eventually it was just her and Angie left. Then her cube-mate put on her coat and started turning off the unnecessary lights.

"I hate to run, but," she hefted her purse onto her shoulder, "I've got a fidgety brother that really wants me to cash his cheque."

Caroline smiled knowingly. "Don't worry about it; I won't stay much later."

Angie smiled to her and headed for the door, pausing momentarily to look back. "We should go for drinks sometime," she said, out of the blue. "You, me and Lauren."

Caroline did her best not to drop her pencil.

"... Really?"

Unfortunately her tone didn't exactly suggest her surprise. More, incredulous.

Angie shrugged, trying to keep cool about it. "Yeah, just... hang out a bit. G'night!"

She was gone before Caroline could even bother explaining her reaction and Caroline felt like crap. She didn't want to come across as a snob—_really? With _you_?—_if anything, this was the first time in years that someone has actually wanted to hang out with her outside of work. Not only that, but the other person _initiated _it. Usually Caroline felt she was bothering everyone else to socialize. To be her friend.

And maybe, just maybe, her father and her private life is her excuse to cover up the fact that she'd kill for some friends once in a while.

No, scratch that. It's not an excuse. It's a real reason to keep some distance. If something... well, she went through having to break the news to folks after her mother died. Support groups are great if you actually get to stick around them. Shortly after her mother died, she had to leave her friends at university and go live with her dad in Gotham. Sure, friends checked in, but the phone conversations fizzled out and the texts came less and less often...

Alright, no need to get into a funk. She shook her arms out and stood up, making her way to the photocopier—just to copy something, do anything, just so she wouldn't sit still—except as she passed Angie's desk, she couldn't help spotting a very familiar cheque sitting on her desk.

Oh, for fucks sake.

Caroline sprinted, taking the same route she had used the night of the break-in—not that she wanted to. She avoided any chance of a memory resurfacing from that night, but unfortunately it was the fastest way to catch up to Angie. Thankfully Angie was only just getting picked up by her brother when Caroline came through the doors of the parkade; she passed the cheque, Angie told her it was pleasure doing business—with a little grin; she was trying to be funny—and Caroline watched her drive off.

As she swirled her keychain round and round on her finger, she eyed the little white Honda Civic-not the worst thing in the world. Maybe a smaller car will be easier to handle. _Less chance of being the cause of destruction when you're the size of a penny_.

She stopped eying her new purchase and walked back to the pedway door; she still had some work to do, but would drive home soon. Ah, driving, she thought as she swiped her card through the reader by the pedway doors. _It's been too long. _

Suddenly her whole body jarred when she grasped the handle to the pedway door and it didn't give.

What the hell?

Caroline frowned and wiped her card through the reader again. It usually beeped to let a user know it was accepted. There was no sound-no whirring machinery, no nothing.

What the hell?

After swiping her card another two dozen times and throwing a mini hissy-fit witnessed by no one, she made her way to the staircase to the right of the pedway, towards her car, which was beside the stairwell. Just outside the stairwell was the emergency phone; it connected to the security desk inside the office building. Bernie the Guard was working tonight. Bernie, who was 65 and a bit slow to get from point A to point B, was rarely sympathetic to those who forgot their swipe cards, but as she argued when she phoned him, a broken card reader was _so _not her fault so could he pretty pretty please come up there and let her in?

Left with his word that he was on his way, Caroline hung up the phone, let her shoulders sag and sighed.

If she didn't work off her gut reaction all the time, she wouldn't get herself in such messes.

No, scratch that. Angie was so worried about that cheque. She shouldn't have forgotten it.

The parking garage was quite empty this late at night on a Tuesday. There were a few cars scattered here and there. As dirty as the parkade was, Caroline's feet were killing her; she pulled her shoes off, stocking feet now bare to the floor, but the cool cement felt sooo good against her aching toes.

With another big, relaxing sigh, she leaned back against the parkade wall, shoes in hands, and stared at the car. She hadn't driven since the night of the break-in. The idea of it had her taking more than a few deep breathes.

_Okay, Carrie, calm down..._

Her eyes followed the curve of the steering wheel and her stomach filled with a dull throbbing dread. What if she was too tired to drive by the time she left tonight? This was probably not a good idea given her current state; but taking the subway by herself this late wasn't an option either. Her anxiety started to get the better of her and she began gnawing her bottom lip.

_Ok, calm down, you can do this._ _You still have to go back to the office to finish up and get your keys, anyway. You can get the nerve up to drive before you go home, right?_

Okay, maybe she should not think about it. She looked around, allowing her eyes to go elsewhere as she calmed her nerves

Out of the corner of her eye she saw a car. It was on the other side of the garage, back near the other stairwell. What struck her was that she recognized the license plate.

That was _Brian's _car.

Her eyebrows knit together with confusion and her shoulders tensed. If he was around, why wasn't he showing up at work? What was going on?

For once she started cursing for real this time; Caroline was not the type to get irrationally angry, but Brian was really starting to get to her. If she had her cell-phone she wouldn't feel the least bit remorseful about calling him and asking what the hell... lucky for him the phone was back with her bag.

A sudden squeal of tires made her jump. She shuddered at the screech. A van rode up the roundabout of the parkade and pulled into view. No one got out. The engine simply shut off.

Caroline was frozen in place.

Thirty seconds later—no one got out of the van.

This didn't feel right.

Out of pure instinct to duck-and-cover, she sank further down the wall, right behind her car. If she had her keys, she would've ducked into her car, but unfortunately they were back in her purse along with her phone. Regardless, in spite of the need to duck, she didn't squat so far as so she couldn't see the van through the windows of her car.

She watched, and waited. What the hell were they doing?

And where the hell was Bernie?

A pit of dread started to pool in her stomach. This was really the wrong place to be right now.

More screeching tires filled the air and she almost screamed—instead she covered her ears. Within a matter of seconds two huge black SUV's pulled up about twenty feet behind the van. A group of greasy men in leather jackets and gold chains came out, stopping to open up a trunk to let out a pair of...Rottweiler's?

Oh _shit. _Caroline sank as far as she dared to and fumbled to put her shoes back on, lest she had to make a run for it. The only people who ran around with groups of angry, snarling Rottweilers were gangsters, and there was a good chance those dogs would _smell _her.

Fuck, bugger, fuck and _shit. _She couldn't outrun dogs. Where the hell was there for her to run to, anyway? The stairwell would take her to the street, but she wouldn't be able to get back into the office from there, either, not this late.

Caroline leaned against her car, the dread growing in her stomach, her heartbeat starting to rise.

Fuck Angie for not taking the damn cheque with her.

If Caroline survived, she was going to make Angie take her out. And it would all be on Angie's dime.

Folks finally got out of the van, just as the newcomers began shouting at them about a... bad shipment? Oh crap, so she was stuck in a parkade with some drug lords mad over a bad deal. It was hard to hear the exact words when they bounced off the concrete so easily, but when she peaked her head up, she saw someone pulled from a van and thrown to the ground. He was scrawny, but shaking, and screaming about words, and clearly terrified out of his wits. It was a state of mind that was way too familiar—

Caroline was far enough away where they wouldn't hear her panting, but she only just realized how heavily she was breathing. In a desperate attempt to keep quiet, she clamped her hand over her mouth. The dogs, the dogs, they'd come rip her up, and then the guys with the guns would come over—

One guy started yelling at the other, complaining about something. Then another figure came from the white van—someone _horribly _familiar.

"Oh _shit," _Caroline whispered frantically, sinking completely behind a car out of fright.

It was the guy in the canvas mask. The guy who broke into her office. The guy who gassed Margaret (who had reacted the same way the guy on the parkade floor was now).

The guy who tried drug the city through the water lines.

He was wearing that horrific mask he wore before. He would recognize her, no doubt about that. What she wouldn't give to be back into her office right now; but for now all she could do was sit and wait, and take shallow breaths, which wasn't calming her heart at all, and those dogs kept barking, and they'd smell her fear soon...

This was a nightmare.

They shouted at each other for a while, and suddenly gunshots rang through the air.

She was wrong; _now_ this was a nightmare.

She covered her head with her hands, whimpering at this point. _Oh god, please, not like this, not because I'm at a job I hate, please please please—_

Some of the thugs came into sight, but they weren't all thugs. Some were in black ... with _hoods_... and they were _shooting _at the gangsters. Were they supposed to be Batman? Rumours had floated around everywhere, but Batman wasn't supposed to be using guns.

Not that it mattered if it was true or not; she was going to die here. No one to tell when you're dead.

The dogs were loose now, running and biting—hopefully thugs tasted better than college undergrads.

The wall behind her car, only a few feet away from her, suddenly gave way—no, something _crashed_ into it. The noise was so shocking and thunderous, Caroline's scream went unnoticed; she fell back on her ass, scooting away from the wall so she wasn't crushed to death, although debris hit her in a few places.

What everyone noticed was what did the crushing. They all stopped and stared at it, marvelling at it's presence, as it crashed through the wall, thoroughly ran over Carolines car (crushing it's roof and hood) and skidded before the thugs.

It was a black tank.

Caroline panted, staring at the car. There was something that looked like a _jet engine _on the back of it. She knew this car.

This was Batman's car.

For a moment it just sat there, and Caroline was too scared to move. She didn't know where the gangsters, or the masked guy, were at, and she wasn't sure if her movements would be picked up by them or by the tank. Regardless, she wasn't sure she had the guts to move.

The mobsters started shooting at the tank—idiots—and the bullets began ricocheting off easily, one landed a few feet from Caroline's hand. This knocked her out of her shock, and she scooted back towards her now-ruined car, hiding again. When they realized they weren't doing any damage to the car, the thugs paused; stared at it, waiting for some reaction...

The gears began turning, whirring, humming. Everyone heard it. Something was turning on.

Caroline screamed again, and so did all the other thugs when the tank shot _missiles _across the parking garage, effectively blowing up the far stairwell and scaring the crap out of everyone.

Okay, so maybe he _did _use guns. Sort of.

And that's when she saw him. Dark, taller, more commanding than the pseudo-caped crusaders around the parkade. One figure able to bring men to their knees just by glaring at them.

The Batman.

Half of the thugs hopped into what was left of their cars, trying to drive away. Whoever stayed behind met the caped crusader's fists and was easily taken out. She couldn't help staring half in awe at his technique, and half with pity because the fear the thugs must be feeling—well, it was contagious. All the rumours that this was a monster, a deformed man-bat hybrid that ripped off heads, they didn't need to exist because of the presence this man showed... but they certainly helped. Look at how many thugs scurried away like cockroaches.

The dogs tore at him, though; once he kicked them away she spotted the shine of blood along his left arm and the right side of his torso. The dark material of his suit suddenly shone in the pale light—slick with a lot, _too much _blood.

No matter. He kept moving.

He stepped up to the parkade ramp, along the side wall, and stood for a moment, waiting for the time to strike one of the fleeing cars below.

Caroline stared in awe at him. Beautiful, frightening creature that he was, risking his life in the dark of night for only evil to see.

_Okay, enough of this crazy action movie. RUN TO THE STAIRWELL. _

Oh look, it's that voice of reason that came to her when she was in the car chase. She was wondering when it would make an appearance. She listened to it, going unnoticed by the thugs that were left knocked out, but she didn't run downstairs once she pushed through the heavy door. She couldn't resist watching the rest through the small window in the door.

Batman didn't kill. He didn't maim. He took people out but left them alive. He wanted the bad guys to get caught, so they could be tried for their crimes. It's easy enough to pull a gun on a guy and shoot him; making sure they are served proper justice, be that sitting in a jail cell for the rest of their lives... it's a better way of fighting crime.

The Batman tied up who was left, getting back into his car. One of the fake Bat-boys spoke up, arguing with him—

And suddenly she knew where her boss had been these last two days.

"Holy shit, Brian," Caroline muttered in the stairwell with disgust, "what the hell are you doing pretending to be Batman?!"

.

.

.

TBC


End file.
